


Across Time And Space

by Annaelle



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 04:17:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 126,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2454422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annaelle/pseuds/Annaelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seventeen year old Emma Swan unwittingly and accidentally falls through a mysterious portal that lands her in the middle of the ocean, only to be saved by a young, dashing lieutenant, and to be brought aboard the Jewel of The Realm. Will she be able to find her home? And if she does... Will she still want to go? Lieutenant Duckling with eventual progression to Captain Swan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

She’s going insane.

That’s the only explanation.

There’s no fucking way that any of this—not the ship, not the people on it, not the smell of the ocean (or the crew)—is real.

None of it. 

Especially not the young Lieutenant that’s on his knees next to her, his clothes as soaked as hers, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, making his eyes seem even bluer— _Jesus, Emma, no!_ She scolds herself internally.

“Miss, are you alright?” His voice is soft, quivering slightly, as though he is as confused as she is—he probably is too; she’d be surprised if he has to fish seventeen year old girls out of the ocean every day—, his hands hovering over her shoulders, almost touching her…

But not quite.

He repeats the question when she remains silent, and she nearly curses her own luck, because really?

Irish? He just has to be Irish?

She sits up carefully, still a little shaky and dizzy, nodding slowly as she tries to process what the hell had happened.

Her gaze slides over the crowded deck—everyone’s staring at her, and she suddenly feels even more self-aware than before. Her clothes are drenched, clinging to her skin, and she is in the presence of at least thirty men, all of them leering at her.

Well, all but the Lieutenant, who is still on his knees next to her.

She swallows thickly, because as much as she wants to be though and strong, she’s well aware that if the men decide to team up against her, she won’t stand a chance. She isn’t sure what is going on—or why the fuck they are dressed like they are sailors in 18th century England—nor how she dropped herself onto her shabby bed in the orphanage and then suddenly found herself falling into the freaking ocean, before being dragged out by Mister-Lieutenant-Playing-Hero, but the only conceivable explanation she can come up with is that she is hallucinating.

Or she’s finally lost her mind.

She wouldn’t be surprised—she’d honestly expected to lose it a long time ago.

“I’m—” her voice hitches, and her teeth chatter as the cold wind blows across the deck, reminding her just how cold and wet she is. His blue eyes widen, and for a moment, she thinks she can see genuine concern for her pass through his eyes, but then she reminds herself that nobody cares about her—a dirty, thieving little orphan—and that he probably just doesn’t want to look like a fool before his crew.

“Someone wake the Captain! And fetch warm blankets!” He shouts suddenly, and the men scatter across the ship as he helps her to her feet gently, and he’s too sweet and genuine as he leads her below deck, chattering non-stop about how he’s so sorry for not realizing how cold it was sooner, and that he hopes she’ll forgive him, but that he’s quite shaken up about suddenly seeing her adrift in the middle of the ocean, and that his Captain will certainly help her, and it makes her want to scream.

She just wants him to shut up, and to let her go, and to stop being so goddamn _sincere_ —because he makes her want to trust him, and she can’t.

She can’t trust anyone.

She doesn’t need anyone—especially not a straight-laced, prim and proper, 18th century Lieutenant who probably has a whole lot of better uses for his time than to be concerned about her.

Before she honestly really realizes where they are going, he ushers her into a large, neat cabin, closing the door behind him. She looks around, still a little dazed, and quite overwhelmed by everything, unsure of what is going to happen now.

“Please,” he says softly, rushing towards her again and leading her towards a small, cushioned bench that seems to be a part of the ship rather than a piece of furniture that was brought onto the ship later on, “Please, sit. I’ll—” he flails a little, looking around the cabin desperately, and for the first time, she realizes how _young_ he is.

She’s sure he’s not much older than she is, and somehow, she finds that a little comforting.

He looks as out of his dept as she feels.

She catches his hand in both of hers, wincing at how cold his skin is—he must be freezing as much as she is—and smiles tentatively. He’s staring at her now, once again on his knees before her, his eyes large, and concerned and so goddamn _blue_ , and his voice is like fucking music to her ears as he mutters another apology for his ‘bad form’.

She’s not sure what he means by that, but she gathers that he thinks he’s being stupid—which he is, but it’s cute, and it’s not really bothering her—so she smiles at him and squeezes his hand softly. “Thank you,” she says slowly, a little put off by how foreign the words feel as they fall from her lips, “For diving in and saving me.”

His answering smile is wide and radiant, and her heart skips a beat as he squeezes her hand in return. “ ‘twas the only proper course of action, miss,” he smiles, “I would rather be damned than let a beautiful lass such as yourself drown.”

Her eyes widen a little at the compliment, and a heartbeat later, his cheeks flush, and he starts stuttering again—Emma really can’t help herself; he’s just _so_ adorable.

She giggles, dropping his hand to press both of hers to her lips, to stifle the giggles that fall from her lips, the weight of the situation finally dawning on her, her giggling transforming into heavy, hysterical sobbing—she had no idea where (or when, for that matter) she is, what is happening, whether she’s dreaming or whether she just lost her mind and all she can think about is that the Lieutenant is too fucking adorable for his own good.

Before he can do more than gape at her, his hands rising hesitantly, as though he wants to pull her closer and comfort her, the door slams open, banging against the wall, and she jumps, whimpering softly as a tall man strides into the cabin, his hair disheveled and his vest not properly buttoned. “Killian!” He exclaims, not yet looking at her, only at the Lieutenant—whose name is Killian, apparently—as he scrambles to his feet clumsily.

“Liam—” Killian breaks off hesitantly and then shakes his head, “Captain.” Emma wonders briefly why he switched from informal to formal, but then realizes it’s probably because of her—and then she just doesn’t care anymore and curls into the soft cushions as much as she can, shivering a little, tears still rolling down her cheeks.

Liam finally seems to notice  her, his eyes  widening a little, and she cowers under his intense gaze, unsure where this vulnerable, frightened, _emotional_ side of her is suddenly coming from.

“I’m sorry,” he finally breaks the silence, approaching her, “I was concerned for my Lieutenant for a moment; I do hope you will forgive me for my poor manners. Are you quite alright?” Emma frowns a little at that—she really doesn’t get why they are all so _nice_ and _concerned_ and so fucking _polite_.

She just wants them to tell her where she is and what the fastest way back home is.

Her eyes fall on the young Lieutenant again, who’s standing slightly behind the captain, his cheeks still flushed and his hair and clothes and everything as soaked as she is—and the sight of him just makes her burst.

“No!” She cries, jumping to her feet—only hindered slightly by her tight, sticky jeans—, “No, I’m not okay! I have no idea where I am, who you all are and why you’re dressed up like it’s fucking Halloween—” both men simply look confused at that, but she ploughs on, because she _needs_ to fucking say this before she explodes, “—and I just want to go _home_.”

Tears are blurring in her eyes and she’s breathing heavily as her voice breaks on the last word. “And you!” She whirls to glare at Lieutenant Killian, “You’re as fucking soaked as I am and you’re only talking about how cold I must be while your own balls must be freezing off by now because your lips are fucking turning blue—what the hell is up with that?”

Though obviously dumbstruck by her tirade, the Captain turns to look at his Lieutenant speechlessly, taking in his appearance slowly, before shaking his head. “Killian, go change into something dry, you fool.”

Emma watches as Killian’s head snaps back and forth between her and the Captain a few times before he nods and hurries from the room, stumbling over his own feet three times before he manages to straighten up. She can’t stop herself from giggling a little—she always pegged naval officers for a bunch of stuck up morons; but these two seem okay.

She’s not sure what to make of the Captain just yet, but her Lieutenant seems … Okay. She supposes she could … maybe… possibly… ask him to help get her home.

She swallows thickly and drags her eyes away from  the door, shivering a little as the sticky cold fabric of her shirt drags across her sensitive skin. She jumps when someone suddenly drapes a thick, warm blanket across her shoulders, and she looks up, slightly startled by the Captain’s suddenly proximity. “How did you end up so far from shore, miss—?” He trails of a little, and she’s shaken from her stupor when Killian slinks back into the room.

“Swan,” she says shakily, looking at Killian—who looks decidedly warmer and less blue—, “Emma Swan. And I—” She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I mean, one minute I was fine, and sitting on my bed, and then the next I was…” she gestures around vaguely, shivering a little, “Here,” she finishes lamely.

Despair washes over her again and she blinks furiously, pushing back the treacherous tears that are burning in her eyes. She looks up at the two men before her, her lower lip trembling slightly as she hugs the blanket tighter around her. “I want to go home,” she whispers, “I don’t know how I got here, or where I am, I just really want to go home. Please.”

The two men exchange a look before Killian approaches her, kneeling before her _again_ —that’s really becoming his thing, isn’t it?—and taking her hands in his hesitantly. “We can help you,” he says slowly, glancing over his shoulder at his Captain again, “Just tell us where you need to go. I’m sure we can…” he hesitates and looks down at their hands, “I’m sure we can find a way to your home.”

“No,” she shakes her head, unsure of how to voice her dilemma, “no, you don’t get it, this isn’t real—in my world, none of this is real, and people don’t act and talk like you two do anymore, and I don’t know where I am… How can I tell you where to go if I don’t even know where we are?”

Her voice rises in level as she speaks, and by the time she’s at the end of her sentence, she’s basically yelling at him— _again_ —that really is becoming her thing now, isn’t it?

Despite how ridiculous and psychotic she’s being, he stays calm and smiles at her, telling her that she will be okay, and that they will find a way, rubbing his thumb over her palm slowly, trying to soothe her—and damn him, but it’s working.

She’s feeling calmer.

“Okay,” she nods, squeezing his hand a little tighter—because even if she can’t trust anyone, and even though she knows she should just rely on herself, she really, _really_ wants to be able to lean on someone right now—because she can’t handle everything.

And being sent to a world where gentlemen and heroes still exist is one of those things she just can’t process on her own.

Her eyes lift to meet his—his impossibly blue eyes—and she tells herself it’s okay to rely on him for now. He makes her feel safe; and though that’s absolutely terrifying, it’s also strangely comforting. She _wants_ to feel safe, for once.

He nods, smiling happily, and jumps to his feet again, starting to rummage in one of the hidden cupboards—she doesn’t know _how_ she missed that huge-ass cupboard—watching slightly confused as he exchanges a few whispered words with the Captain before the latter nods and leaves her and Killian alone, Killian rummaging through the cupboard for a few more moments.

The silence is almost too much for her—it feels heavy and thick and she really hates it.

“So,” she drawls slowly, snuggling into the blanket a little deeper, “What are we doing now? I mean… I’m sure you guys have better things to do than look after a stray girl you fished out of the ocean.” Killian turns around and shakes his head at her. “We would never put trivial business such as errands above someone’s life, miss Swan.”

When he’s standing in front of her again, she realizes he’s holding dry clothes, and furrows her eyebrows confusedly—she’s never going to fit in those.

He looks down with a slightly sheepish smile and mutters, “Well, your garments cannot dry like that, and I would hate for you to fall ill.” He holds up the shirt and breeches and adds, “At least in these, you will be warm and dry. We can purchase clothes for you in the next harbor if need be—and you can wear your own clothes until you do. Once they’re dry, of course.”

She smiles a little, but allows him to ramble as she takes the clothes from him; he’s right, those’ll be more comfortable than her own soaking wet jeans. He takes a deep breath and gestures around the cabin. “You may spend the night in here—I will sleep with the crew—you should be quite comfortable here; it is the best bed besides my broth—the Captain’s.”

She stares at him for a good moment after that, unsure of what to say. “You’re… You’re letting me sleep in your room?” she asks in disbelief, because from what she knows about the crew’s quarters—which isn’t all that much, to be honest—they’re quite uncomfortable and smell like hell, and if he’s willingly sleeping there to let her sleep here…

That has to be the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for her.

And the scariest.

He nods, the smile still lingering on his lips, though he does look confused. “Of course,” he replies, “It would be bad form of me not to give up my quarters to my guest.”

She opens her mouth and then closes it again immediately, looking down at the floor, her cheeks burning. She honestly doesn’t know why she’s responding like this to him calling her ‘ _his_ ’ guest—it’s not like he means anything special by it.

It’s like he said; it’s just good form.

She manages a weak smile when he nods tersely and wishes her goodnight, and tells her not to hesitate to find him or the Captain if she required anything.

“Hey,” she managed to choke out, “You know my name… It’d be nice if I knew who to ask for tomorrow morning… Lieutenant sounds so...” she bites her lip a little, because she really can’t believe that she’s _flirting_ with someone she’s probably just made up with her completely cuckoo mind, but then decides that it really doesn’t matter.

If this is all in her head, she might as well enjoy it.

“… _Impersonal_ ,” she finishes, trying to hide her smile when his cheeks turn bright red.

“K—Killian,” he stutters, “Killian Jones.” He manages a sweet, sincere smile as he opens the door. “Goodnight, miss Swan.”

Emma grins, hugging his clothes to her chest as she mutters a soft, “Goodnight, Lieutenant Jones.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

When she wakes up, the sky is still dark, but slowly going from that deep, rich midnight black to the soft, comforting deep blue that precedes sunrise.

At first, she’s not entirely sure _where_ she is; or why her bed is swaying slightly; nor why the sounds of the other children in the orphanage sound so different all of a sudden. She can hear the soft rushing of water of the shower—though it’s different than she remembers.

_What the hell is going on?_

She blinks up at the ceiling confusedly, trying to remember when she moved to a room with a solid wooden ceiling; a room that smells like the sea; a room that makes her feel like she’s safe. Slowly, she sits up, careful not to bump her head on the low ceiling as she rubs her temples, trying to make sense of the mess that are her memories.

Her head feels fuzzy, and the room just won’t quit swaying, which does not help her pounding headache _at all_.

She pulls down the sleeves of the oversized shirt she’s wearing, rubbing the tip of her sleeve over her nose, trying to sort dreams from reality—she remembers blue eyes, a smile that made her heart skip a few beats, the smell of the ocean…

She remembers Killian Jones.

Her eyes snap open and she stares at the shirt she’s wearing, her eyes widening slightly at the realization that she’s wearing _his_ shirt.

“No,” she breathes, shaking her head at herself, “No, this isn’t real. No way.”

But the sound of the water softly slapping against the hull of the ship is unmistakable, and, now that she’s listening closely, she can hear the crew bustling up on deck, and someone—whether Killian or the Captain—shouting orders.

Emma tugs her fingers through her messy, knotted hair and wrinkles her nose; salt water and her hair do not mix well. She runs her fingers through the knots (she really doesn’t want to look like a hag or a troll when she sees Killian again) and tries to convince herself that somehow, this will turn out okay. Last night, when she’d curled up in his bunk, she’d told herself it was a dream; that there was no Lieutenant Killian Jones, who could make her blush by simply smiling at her and make her heart skip a beat, was real.

She would wake up in her own, shabby little bed in the orphanage, and she’d go back to her shitty life.

She looks around the cabin, shaking her head at herself.

Obviously, that hasn’t happened.

She sighs heavily, closing her eyes and resting her forehead on her knees. _What am I supposed to do now?_ Her stomach rumbles loudly and suddenly in response, and Emma winces at the reminder of how long it’s been since she’s last eaten.

It takes her a few moments to pull herself together, and to fully realize that sitting around and brooding really isn’t going to help her get home—she needs to man up and get dressed, find the Captain or Killian and get a plan in motion.

She needs to go home.

She hops from the bed and starts collecting her clothes, wincing when she pulls the stiff fabric of her jeans over her bare legs; dried salt and jeans do not agree.

For a moment, she deliberates exchanging the comfortable, soft shirt Killian gave her for her own shirt, but discards that idea rather quickly—her shirt is no better off than her jeans. She tucks the shirt in the top of her jeans quickly, running her fingers through her hair nervously, fleetingly wondering if she looks okay.

As soon as she realizes what she’s doing, she scolds herself, shaking her head at how utterly _ridiculous_ she’s being.   _‘He’s not real, Emma,’_ she reminds herself firmly, nodding to herself. ‘ _He’s just a part of the dream. Don’t go there.’_

She repeats those words over and over again as she leaves the cabin, stumbling her way through the narrow passageways until she finds the stairs that lead—thank God—to deck. She gulps in the fresh, salty air gratefully, enjoying the soft breeze that ruffles her messy curls (she completely ignores the men hustling and bustling about deck, pushing past her one after the other).

She’s silently marveling over her own imagination (she can’t believe she came up with smells and sounds and visions that make it feel _so_ extremely real) when a booming voice from behind her makes her jump at least a foot in the air.

“Ah, miss Swan!”

She turns around, smiling nervously at the Captain as he approaches her—she has no idea why he makes her so nervous, but the fact remains that he _does_ and she really hates that. It’s bad enough that his lieutenant makes her blush and stutter like a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl (never mind that she _is_ seventeen and technically still in high school), she really doesn’t need the Captain to make her feel more vulnerable.  

“Captain,” she smiles tightly, wrapping her arms around herself, the breeze suddenly feeling a lot colder. He stops in front of her, returning her smile in kind and nodding. “I trust you had a good night’s rest? Lieutenant Jones informed me he gave up his cabin so that you may enjoy the comforts of a real bed.”

Emma’s smile softens a little at the memory of Killian’s flushed cheeks, and she nods. “Yeah, he did. And I slept really well.” She shakes herself from her temporary stupor and uncrosses her arms. “Is there anything I can do on the ship?” She asks, eyeing the Captain carefully—she’s not some weak little damsel; if they’re going to be helping her, she might as well return the favor.

She has two very capable hands, and she wants—no, she _needs_ —to be busy.

The Captain opens his mouth to reply when one of the men interrupts them, smiling sheepishly at Emma, clenching his fingers around his hat. “Captain, pardon the interruption. The men were wondering whether we would be making port soon—the rations are running low, and some of the men,” he hesitates and shoots a fleeting glance at Emma, “Some of the men worry that we might not have enough with an extra passenger on board.”

“Nonsense,” Killian’s voice rings out from behind her, making her jump and blush (what is it about it him that makes her _blush_ all the damn time?). Slowly, she turns to look at him, biting her lip slightly when she catches herself staring at him for a bit too long.

Damn those pretty blue eyes of his.

When he’s joined them, standing tall and proud at her side, she finally decides she can chance a look at the Captain, who looks oddly amused. “Yes,” he drawls slowly, “As Lieutenant Jones here so eloquently said, this is utter nonsense. Miss Swan is a woman, not an elephant. I am most certain our rations will hold until tomorrow.”

The crew member nods slowly and smiles apologetically. “I am sorry,” he addresses her directly, “I was merely expressing the rest of the men’s concern.” The Captain nods with a gentle smile. “We understand. Back to your work now, Stiles.” The man—Stiles, she reminds herself—nods and retreats, going back to whatever he was doing earlier.

“So,” the Captain smiles, “I’ll leave you in my brother’s capable hands. He will be sure to distribute one of the minor tasks on the ship to you.”  She smiles gratefully at him—she’s glad he seems to understand her need to _do_ something—before the first part of his sentence registers.  “Wow—wait up,” she throws up her hands and shakes her head, looking between her Lieutenant— _not yours, Emma_ , she reminds herself—and the Captain, “your _brother_?” She pouts at Killian and crosses her arms over her chest. “You did not mention that.”

She’s aware of the Captain chuckling under his breath when he leaves them, but she’s completely focused on Killian. She knows she’s being a little ridiculous (he doesn’t have to tell her anything), but she feels blindsided nonetheless.  “I was not aware that I needed to tell you about my family relations after I saved you from the water, miss Swan,” Killian offers with a slight smile, “I will remember it for next time.”

She grumbles under her breath a little, not dropping her stance in the slightest.

He smiles genuinely at her, not once mocking her for how childish she must look right now (God knows she has a stubborn—and slightly petulant—streak a mile wide), and offers her his arm. “Allow me to escort you to the galley—you have not eaten yet, I presume?”

At the mere mention of food, her stomach grumbles embarrassingly loud,  and he chuckles a little as her cheeks start to burn. “I’ll take that as a no, shall I?” He responds charmingly as she links her arm with his, allowing him to lead her back towards the stairs.

They chatter inconsequently on their way to the galley, and Emma needs to restrain the urge to slap herself in the face more than once for swooning over how gentleman-like he’s being.

She needs to remind herself time and again that he’s not real, and that she can’t feel anything for him.

He’ll disappear sooner or later, when she wakes up again.

The thought depresses her a little bit, and she’s pretty sure he notices as he offers her a seat at the long table while he fetches them both some of the very unappealing hardtack (then again, she’s so hungry she’d probably eat _him_ if she doesn’t get food in her stomach soon).

She snatches the hardtack out of his hands as soon as he’s within reach, nearly devouring the first piece in one bite, only noticing Killian’s amused gaze on her when her mouth’s so full, she can barely chew enough to swallow.

She swallows thickly, biting her lip softly as she looks up into his eyes, her cheeks burning— _again_ —as he smiles down at her. She’d never admit it out loud, but she really likes how he’s just  that little bit taller than her (then again, she’s going with the this-is-a-dream-and-I-made-everything-and-everyone-up-theory, so she supposes that it’s only logical that he’d be the perfect man for her).

“I was hungry,” she whispers sheepishly, unsure why she feels the need to make sure he doesn’t find her annoying . He grins at her, taking a bite from his own hardtack. “I can tell,” he responds, “Do you want another piece?”

She accepts his offer gratefully, eating this piece a little slower, trying to enjoy the taste of the tough biscuit.

“Would you allow me to escort you to town when we make port tomorrow?” Killian blurts suddenly, and she’s so startled, she does nothing but stare at him for a long, tense moment, her mouth slightly ajar. His cheek flame bright red, and his eyes lower to stare at his hardtack as he starts stuttering again. Her heart clenches, and on an impulse, she grabs his hand in hers, smiling tentatively at him. “Of course I would,” she says softly, trying to ignore how goose bumps sprout over her entire arm when he rubs his thumb over her palm.

They stare at each other for another, long moment before she decides she can’t take more (she really needs to remember she can’t trust people) and pulls away from him. “Okay,” she breathes, “What now?” Killian seems to shake himself, smiling brightly at her.

“Well, miss Swan,” he drawls, “I do believe my brother promised you work—let’s get to that.” He stands and offers her his arm once again.

She suppresses a giggle and allows him to help her to her feet. “Yes,” she smiles, “Let’s.”

.

.

.

“So,” Killian states, pulling the rope she’s been trying to knot the way he seems to do it so effortlessly for the past hour from her hands, “you live with a certain family for a few weeks and then get sent on to the next?” He wrinkles his nose in distaste, and she whole-heartedly agrees with that sentiment, “Who in their right minds would inflict such cruelty on a child?”

Emma shrugs a little, fiddling with a stray piece of rope as she watches his hands twist the rope that she had been trying to knot, “The system itself isn’t _too_ bad,” she concedes, “It’s just… Most of the families in it aren’t there for the right reasons. That’s what makes it horrible.”

She looks out over the water, staring into the distance, where she can make out the shore and the small town’s harbor, and misses the tender look Killian shoots her. Slowly, he reaches out to touch her hand, smiling gently at her when she turns back to him. “I’m sorry,” he says softly, “That you went through such a horrid ordeal. No one deserves that.”

Emma chokes, staring at him open-mouthed. She has absolutely no _fucking_ clue how she’s supposed to respond to that. Part of her wants to rip her hand from his and yell at him, tell him that she doesn’t need his pity, that she can get by just fine on her own (there’s a very large and unfortunate dominant part of her that wants to yell the exact opposite), but she reigns in that particular urge when she realizes just how _serious_ he is.

He’s actually feeling bad about how she was treated.

“I—” she starts, wincing at how her voice shakes, “It’s not so bad now,” she shrugs, trying to make light of the heavy moment, “the orphanage is nicer than any of the families I have ever been with, so…”

Killian nods, tossing aside the now-knotted rope, and smiles at her. “And you must have friends now,” he states, looking down uncomfortably as he continues, “A suitor waiting for you to return to him.” She snorts unattractively, to which he only responds with a raised eyebrow.

She rolls her eyes and sighs. “I don’t really date,” she shakes her head, “Most guys aren’t interested either. So no,” she smiles when he looks adorably confused, “No suitor waiting for me.” Her stomach clenches as she drops her gaze to their hands, “Nobody’s waiting for me at all,” she whispers so softly, she’s sure he didn’t hear.

“They’re fools then,” Killian says softly, squeezing his fingers around hers gently, “I can think of a number of men about this ship who would beg at your feet for so little as a kind word or a smile from you, miss Swan.”

“Lucky you then,” she smiles a little, trying not to blush _too much_ , biting her lip a little, “You’ve been hogging me since yesterday—I’m sure I’ve given you plenty of smiles already.”

Killian’s nose crinkles, and though she can tell he’s confused, he still blushes a tiny little bit, and that makes her feel slightly less foolish for blushing so damn much around him. “I am sorry,” he responds slowly, “I’m not sure what that means, but yes,” he smiles, “You have given me plenty of smiles—though I do hope there are far more to come.”

A small, unbidden, _real_ smile breaks through on Emma’s lips before she can stop it, and a small giggle escapes from her lips. “Are you—” she bites her lip and continues, “Are you flirting with me?” Killian’s eyes widen almost comically and his jaw drops, and Emma can’t contain her laughter anymore. “That’s not very good form of you, is it, Lieutenant?” She teases, poking his arm, winking to get her point across.

“I was not flirting,” he protests weakly, his flaming red cheeks contracting every word he says. “You were too,” Emma giggles, “You said you’d beg at my feet for a smile and a kind word!” Killian doesn’t respond as she continues teasing him, though he does try to hush her several times when the other men walk past them.

Eventually, Liam calls him up to the helm of the ship, to steer them into the harbor, and she follows Killian, teasingly singing in his ear, “You love my smile… You’d beg at my feet for one.” He stops suddenly, and she nearly crashes into him, swallowing thickly when he swivels around, staring her down (damn his blue, blue eyes) with a smirk on his face.

“Miss Swan,” he breathes, and he’s so close she can feel his breath on her lips, and it makes her tingle in ways it should definitely _not_ be doing, “I do enjoy your smile and company, but for now,” he continues, “Please do shut up, _before_ my brother hears.”

She can’t stop giggling the whole time he’s steering the ship expertly into the harbor.

He’s a stupid, made-up sailor.

But it really does look like he’s _her_ sailor.

.

.

.

She doesn’t have enough eyes.

That’s the only conclusion she can draw as she turns her head from side to side, trying to take in everything at once, feeling more than a little overwhelmed (though also strangely enchanted) by the bustling liveliness of the small village.

There are merchants and stalls everywhere, and there’s so much color, so many new smells, so many people…

She can’t decide where to look first.

She knows Killian is standing right behind her (he’s so close she can practically feel his body heat), probably rolling his eyes at her—she has to look like a gawking tourist, there’s just no way around that, but she really just doesn’t care.

This place is amazing.

“We will have to start moving, miss Swan,” Killian says gently, moving to touch her elbow, “Liam will be expecting us at Lady Luciana’s house in a two hours.” Emma turns to him, nodding slowly. “I have one request though,” she states as she links her arm through his pro-offered one. “Please call me Emma. Miss Swan’s too…” She smirks as she recalls the previous night and how she weaseled his name from him, “ _impersonal_.”

“Emma,” he repeats slowly, almost like he’s tasting how her name feels on his lips. She tries to ignore how utterly _deliciously_ his accent wraps around her name, but a small part of her is telling her to pat herself on the back, because asking him to call her Emma is the smartest thing she’s ever done.

“Come then, Emma,” he smiles broadly, “Allow me to show you where to purchase the kind of garments you will need if you stay here for a while.” She willingly lets him lead her through the crowd, still a little overwhelmed by this … Other realm, as Killian called it earlier, and very unwilling to lose the only guide she knows she can trust.

He stops in front of a small stall, tucked away in a corner, and she’s sure she would have missed it had he not lead her to it. Clothes and fabrics are spread out over the table, in the most bright and beautiful colors Emma has ever seen, and she can’t resist the urge to touch every single item. “Killian Jones!” An old voice croaks, and Emma jumps lightly when an old, sweet-looking woman appears on the other end of the table, “It truly has been too long, m’boy,” the woman coos affectionately, ruffling his hair while he crinkles his nose.

Emma bites her lip so she won’t laugh at him, but the way the woman is treating him is really, really cute.

“Hello Adie,” Killian smiles broadly, moving to hug the woman, “It’s lovely to see you. Liam told me to give you his love; he was very busy today, but he hopes to be able to pay you a visit tomorrow.” Emma watches, slightly uncomfortable, as the woman pecks Killian on each cheek twice and then turns her attention to her.

“Who’s this, m’boy?” She practically shoves Killian aside to get to Emma, and Emma really doesn’t know how to respond to that. “This is Emma,” Killian says (and she swears, for a second, he looks proud), “She is… She…” He frowns and then shakes his head. “It is very complicated.”

Adie’s looking at her intently, and Emma squirms a little, looking at Killian over her shoulder with wide eyes. She glares at him when he merely grins at her, before all of her attention is drawn back to Adie, who’s started rambling about clothes and sizes, and before Emma is fully aware of what’s going on, her arms are full of clothes—tunics, shirts, leather trousers, linen trousers, socks, and so much more.

“I—what—” she stutters, staring at the little old lady before her.

Adie stares at her like she’s the one who’s acting insane and shakes her head. “Go try those on, you silly girl—I’m sure you and Killy don’t have all day.”

Emma nearly drops everything she’s holding as she swivels around to look at Killian (red-face, she knew it! He’s adorable when he blushes), mouthing, ‘ _Killy?_ ’ at him. His jaw clenches and he silently glares at her—she smirks back and winks at him.

“Of course,” Emma smiles broadly, moving into the improved changing booth.

Not even twenty minutes later, Emma’s standing back next to Killian, her purchases piled up in his arms, Adie smiling broadly at them. “You bring this one back to see me again, Killian,” she orders her Lieutenant, and Emma can’t suppress her chuckle at his almost permanent blush. “I will,” he promises, bidding goodbye to Adie before leading Emma away from the stall, further into the village.

“So who is she, _Killy_?” Emma teases, tugging at his arm playfully. “She’s…” He hesitates, “She’s the only mother Liam and I had. She raised us when our father abandoned us—until we were old enough to join the Navy.”

Emma stops dead in her tracks, her stomach sinking as she stares at him. “You were orphans?” She chokes, unsure why that makes her feel closer to him than she feels comfortable being. He looks down and nods. “Aye. Mother died when I was born and father  abandoned us when I was seven.” Before she can stop herself, she reaches for his free hand and squeezes it softly. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, “that something so horrid happened to you.”

A small smile tugs on his lips, and her heart skips a beat—she pulls her hand away from his and looks away immediately. She’s not uncomfortable with being this close to him at all—and that scares the crap out of her.

She swallows at his barely audible sigh, only looking up when he offers her his arm again. “Come lass,” he mumbles, “Liam and Lady Luciana will be waiting for us.”  Still deep in thought, she lets him guide her through the village, barely paying attention to where he’s taking her. She needs to remember that she shouldn’t trust Killian too much—she can’t trust people.

She needs to go home; she can’t stay here.

She can’t risk falling in love with Killian.

Ever.

She glances at him from the corner of her eyes, allowing herself a long of moment to appreciate just how handsome her sailor is—because he is.

She just wishes he could be hers.

Her eyes drop back to her feet, and she sighs.

He can’t be.

But that doesn’t mean the dream will disappear; she doubts if she will ever forget about him.

She’s shaken from her thoughts when he stops, looking up at the modest townhouse in front of them. “Is this it?” she asks, looking up at him with a soft smile that she really can’t hide (he just makes her smile all the time).

“Yes,” he replies, “it is.”

She swallows thickly, nerves suddenly settling deep in the pit of her stomach—Killian told her that if this woman couldn’t help her, he wasn’t sure when they would find someone else who could.

“It’ll be okay, you know?”  

She looks up at him, biting her lip harshly to keep her tears at bay. “How do you know that?” He shrugs and smiles at her. “I just do. It will work out. Just have faith. We’ll find a way.”

For some, insane, stupid reason, she believes him.

She actually believes him.

“Okay,” she whispers, nodding slowly, “Okay. Let’s do this.”

.

.

.

As Emma looks around the cabin, a sudden wave of desperation washes over her, and all the walls that she’s been fighting _so_ hard to keep up around Killian just tumble down, and she crashes against him, allowing him to catch her as she bursts into tears. “What if I never get home?” She hiccups, tears rolling down her cheeks, staining his pristine white vest.

Lady Luciana had been helpful enough—she’d provided them with a portal bean, given them all the information they needed to use it and warned them about the dangers it entailed. And then she’d look straight at Emma and told her that the bean wasn’t going to be enough to get her home.

 _“A bean can create a portal to another realm, dearie,”_ the woman had said, her voice eerily high and shrill, _“But it cannot travel across time; in my knowledge, nothing has ever passed the great barrier of time. Not without grave consequence. This bean will not get you to your land.”_

Her fingers clench on his shirt, and she closes her eyes as she tries to remind herself that not all hope is lost yet; they _have_ the bean. “We will find a way, love,” Killian whispers in her ear, his lips brushing past her temple, “We found the bean already; we’ll find a way to create a portal that allows time travel too.” She shivers, flexing her fingers against his linen shirt.

How does he always know what to say to her?

“How do you know that?” She whimpers, looking up at him, blinking her tears away furiously, “What if I’m stuck here for the rest of my life?” His eyes are wide and bright and he smiles softly at her, rubbing his thumb over her cheek to wipe away her lingering tears. “Then I will take care of you, lass,” he says gently, “until the day you decide you no longer wish me to.”

Emma’s heart skips several beats at the conviction and the pure _truth_ in his eyes. He’s absolutely serious—and that’s what scares her the most. She’s never _ever_ allowed herself to be this close to anyone; physically and emotionally.

She’s always expected people to hurt her as soon as she got close to them, and it’s hard to remember that Killian isn’t going to be one of those people. She still doesn’t know whether or not this is real, whether or not she’s dreaming… But she knows that he’s not going to hurt her.

Real or not.     

Suddenly, she’s fully aware of how close they are, his body pressing against hers—but there’s nothing about the feel of him so close to her that makes her feel uncomfortable or uneasy (nothing about him ever has).

“What if that day never comes?” She finally whispers in reply, her eyes flickering down to his lips before she finally gathers up enough courage to look him in the eye again. She knows he’s never seen her as the dirty, thieving, little orphan, but somehow, the mere thought of him thinking of her like that makes her feel sick.  

His answering smile is bright and beautiful, and her breathing hitches when he tilts his head closer, their faces now so close together that their noses brush against each other and their breaths mingle. “Then I will live out my days in happiness,” he breathes, his fingers brushing over the skin on the nape off her neck, curling into her silky blonde locks, “by your side.”

They move almost simultaneously, her fingers curling in the lapels of his navy blue jacket, pulling him closer just as he moves to pull her in, their lips meeting in the middle, both of them holding their breaths for a split-second as their lips finally, _finally_ meet.

Emma sighs softly, her lips parting beneath his, willingly allowing him to pull her closer to him (like that is even possible), and to deepen the kiss. She marvels over the feeling of his fingers sliding over her scalp as he twines his fingers in her hair, her knees feeling very weak all of a sudden.

He’s not the first boy she’s kissed… But he’s the very first to make her feel like she’ll faint if he stops kissing her. His lips are incredibly soft, and she shivers as her own tongue slides out to caress his (he tastes delicious, and she forgets to breathe for a moment).

The need for air becomes too pressing, too urgent soon though, and she whines softly under her breath when he breaks the kiss. Her head is still spinning and her lips are tingling deliciously where his are still brushing against hers. “Emma,” he breathes—she’s never heard anyone say her name like that.

Like she’s the most precious thing he has ever encountered.

He sounds awed.

Her eyes flutter open slowly, lazily, and she tightens her grip on him, so he can’t leave her—not just yet. She doesn’t want the moment to end.

Even if this turns out to be a dream in the long run, she’ll never be able to forget how _perfect_ the kiss felt. Killian slides his fingers down from where they are tangled in her curls, over her cheek, lingering on her bottom lip. “We should stop,” he whispers, “Before we…”

Emma’s eyes flutter closed for a brief moment, resting her forehead against his as she nods slowly.

“Yeah. I know,” she breathes, finally loosening her grip on his lapels, “I know.” Killian opens his mouth again, but whatever he wants to say is interrupted by a  high, sharp whistle—they both groan in disappointment.

“I have to go, love,” he says sadly, “If I’m not up there soon, my brother will come looking for me.” She nods slowly, biting her lip to hide her disappointment.  She’s blatantly unwilling to let him run away from her though, so she doesn’t let go of his shirt, keeping his body pressed against hers.

“Love,” he whispers, “Emma… Liam will come looking for me soon.” She closes her eyes again, pouting a little. “I know,” she whispers, “But if I let go... What if you decide this is a mistake?”

His fingers move over her face, delicately tracing her jaw and lips. “I would never consider you a mistake, my sweet Emma.” She lets a shuddering breath fall from her lips, trying to convince herself that letting him go is okay—that he’ll come back.

Killian leans in to press one more, sweet kiss to her lips before he gently pries her fingers from his jacket.

“I really need to go, Emma,” he says softly.

She takes a deep breath and stumbles a few steps back, sinking onto his bed. “Will you come back later?” She feels a little desperate for asking, but he just smiles and nods, running his fingers through his hair. “If you are not asleep by then,” he responds, smiling lightly, “it would be my pleasure.”

She nods, pleased with his answer, and kicks off her new boots, crawling back onto the bed as Killian heads for the door when the repeat of the high, long whistle announces the change of watch up on deck. “Goodnight, Killian,” she whispers as he opens the door to leave. He doesn’t turn around to look at her, but she knows he’s smiling as he pauses by the door. 

“Goodnight, Emma.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

**Jewel Of The Realm—Lieutenant Jones’ Cabin  
 _(Two weeks later)_**

His eyes roll back into his head as Emma drags her fingers through his hair, tugging on it lightly, playfully, when he pulls back from her delicious, soft lips to breathe. “You will be the death of me,” he chuckles, stroking his fingers over her forehead, “I do need air, lass.”

“Awe,” Emma pouts, her lips curling up into a devious smile that he had quickly come to love and hate with equal measure, “You sure? I’m willing to try to go without for a little longer.” He groans a little when she pushes him down against the sheets again, pressing her soft lips to his. The feeling of fulfillment and contentment when he kisses her washes over him again, and he responds to her kiss with enthusiasm, tunneling his fingers in her hair to pull her closer.

Perhaps this behavior (sneaking around with Emma, keeping his affections a secret from his brother, asking others to take his watch so he can spend time with Emma) is not proper, nor very good form, but he honestly cannot bring himself to stop.

He’s drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

He _cannot_ stay away from her.

They had both decided, after their third stolen kiss, that it would be more prudent to keep their affections to themselves; at least for the time being.

Though his brother is very fond of Emma, Killian is quite certain he would not approve of Killian courting her. Emma, quite surprisingly, recognized the situation as he did, and suggested he leave her in the next port (the mere suggestion had made him recoil, made his heart clench painfully, and he had dismissed that idea without a second thought) so she would not complicate his life any further than she already had.

Her words, not his.

A sharp tug on his hair draws him back to reality, where Emma is still sitting astride him on his bed in his cabin, her lips still _very_ pleasantly keeping his occupied.

Gods, he _loves_ kissing her.

Perhaps Emma’s right—who needs air? His hand slides into her wild, loose curls, and he pulls her closer, needing more of her—he can’t get enough. Emma hums against his lips, and she pulls away slowly, their lips parting with a soft, popping sound.

She takes a deep breath and sags against his chest, snuggling deep into his embrace. These are moments he honestly craves most—not that any of his encounters with Emma are anything less than amazing—, the simplicity and the genuine peace he always feel when they lay like this something he has never before experienced.

Something he’s growing to believe he will only ever be able to experience with Emma.

It had been a thought that spooked him a little, to be honest. He’s known Emma for no more than a few weeks, and already, he finds that he is unwilling to imagine a day she won’t be by his side anymore. They have not yet been able to procure any sort of instruction on how to create a portal to another time and realm (they have not even been able to verify whether it is possible at all), and he knows that Emma is slowly losing faith.

He refuses to give up, even though the day he will have to let her go in order to let her return to her own world is a day he dreads. He’d give her anything if it made her happy—and now, it seems she needs him to believe, to have faith that she’ll find her way home.

They lay in silence for a long, comfortable moment, before their moment is broken ( _again)_ by the sharp whistle. They’ve grown accustomed to the bloody whistle constantly interrupting their time together, but that does not mean he does not feel the urge to bloody throttle the idiot who keeps announcing his watch anymore.

Emma sighs against him, curling her fingers around his cravat. “I don’t want you to go yet,” she whines softly, and he chuckles lightly. “I do not wish to go yet either,” he replies, running his fingers aimlessly over her back, “But I fear I must. I have been slacking in my duties—the men will begin to talk; and I would not wish Liam to hear about this from another but me.”

He feels Emma nods against his chest, before she rolls of him, choosing instead to cuddle up next to him, resting her head on his shoulder, her arm slung around his waist. She uses her free arm to pull his arm around her shoulders, effectively trapping him against her.

Not that he’s complaining whatsoever.

“Would he really disapprove?” She asks in an a soft, insecure whisper, and for a moment, he feels his heart clench—how can she believe that Liam will disapprove of her because of _her_? “No,” he states, fully convinced of that fact, “No, he would not. But I do fear he might disapprove of the situation.”

“The situation really sucks,” Emma grumbles, her fingers tightening on his shirt once again, “It’s not fair. Why can’t anything ever be easy?” He chuckles lightly, though he whole-heartedly agrees with her—their situation is anything but easy. “I do believe easy would bore us sooner or later,” he whispers, “And I will talk to my brother.”

“And what would you tell him?” She sits up and looks down at him with an expression he cannot discern; it’s not quite fear—though it does seem to linger in her eyes too.

He’s not certain what to make of it.

“The truth,” he responds slowly, unsure of what to say; unsure of what she _wants_ him to say. He sits up too, reaching out to touch her cheek gingerly. “Emma, love, what would you have me tell him?” She leans away from his touch, and though he knows he has no right to be hurt or insulted, it _does_ sting a little.  “I don’t know,” she enunciates slowly, her voice hard and cold, like he’s never heard it before. “There’s not much to tell, is there? We’re fooling around—nothing more.”

“Fooling around,” he repeats slowly, trying not to show how deeply that had struck him—he’s begun developing feelings for her, and though he knows it is not the most conventional situation, he honestly believes that they can make it work.

He cannot really comprehend _why_ it hurts him that she does not share this view—or that she does not share his affection—but that does not take away the fact that it _does_.

“Right,” he swallows thickly, “Well, if this is no more than a foolish dalliance,” he looks away from her, nursing his wounded pride and feelings, slipping from the bed quickly, “perhaps I should not speak to my brother at all. I would hate to raise his concern over _nothing.”_ He nearly spits the last word, straightening his shirt and cravat angrily as he stalks towards the door, deliberately not looking at Emma.

“Killian,” she chokes from behind him, and he stiffens—he had never before been aware that it could hurt to hear someone say his name, but damn him, it bloody well nearly _shatters_ him to continue walking.

“Killian, I’m sorry,” she exclaims, and he doesn’t even realize she’s jumped off the bed to follow him until her hand falls onto his arm. “Aye,” he breathes, “As am I.” With that, he shrugs off her hand, no matter how it pains him to do so, and leaves the room.

.

.

.

“Do you know what you’re doing, brother?” Killian jumps a little, turning to glare at his brother. “Of course I know what I am doing,” he grumbles, though he supposes he should be grateful Liam pulled him from his brooding before he ran the ship against the cliffs, “You should know. You’re the one that taught me.”

Liam chuckles good-naturedly and claps him on the shoulder, shaking his head. “You know that is not what I meant to ask, Killian. I am fully aware you know what you’re doing at the helm…” He trails off hesitantly, and Killian swallows thickly, unsure if he likes the direction this conversation is taking. “I’m sure I have no idea what you are talking about ,” he responds tightly, keeping his eyes trained on the horizon, only glancing away to check the correct heading on the compass.

“Please,” Liam shakes his head, squeezing Killian’s shoulder a little tighter, “You know exactly what I am talking about. The men talk—and I may be purposefully ignorant to a lot of the things happening on my ship, but I am not stupid. I am talking about your dalliance with miss Swan—do you have any bloody clue what you’re getting yourself into?”

Liam’s voice breaks a little nearing the end of his sentence, and Killian winces—he knows Liam is merely concerned about his wellbeing; but he _needs_ Emma.

So much that it is frightening.

“No,” he sighs, rubbing his forehead warily, “I’ve no clue.” He swallows painfully as he recalls how she dismissed their dalliance as though it meant nothing to her—even though he’s certain that the things he feels are not one-sided.

They cannot possibly be one-sided.

He misses the look of concern that Liam shoots him. “Do tell me, brother,” Liam starts, “How did this little romance come to be? You, of all, should realize that this is one romance one should stay well away from.”

“Honestly,” Killian sighs, “I thought I would be too. And according to her, there is no elicit romance. Our dalliance is _foolish_. It’s over.” He hardens his voice and his heart, glancing down at the compass once more, and adjusting the course a little. His brother is quiet for a long time, and Killian has a fleeting moment of hope that his brother will leave the subject—that he will not push him for more.

He does not want to think about it.

He feels foolish as it is, realizing that Emma has no true feelings of affection for him—not the way he had begun to feel for her.

“Why is that?” Liam inquires slowly, confused by his brother’s sudden harsh words. “I was under the impression you were quite taken with her.” Killian looks down, his fingers tightening on the wheel as he nods. “I am—but I see no use in prolonging the inevitable. Miss Swan has made it quite clear she holds little to no affection for me in return, and I do not wish to be used as a mere toy that she can toss when she gets bored.”

Once again, Liam falls silent, and Killian silently thanks the Gods for the silence—silence in which he can bask in the sounds of the sea and the soft creaking of the Jewel; yes, those are the only two women he needs in his life.

He swallows thickly and nods.

He just needs to remember that.

Liam’s sudden chuckle of amusement startles him, and he turns to glare at his older brother with a frown. Liam merely shakes his head, still smiling, and claps his hand on Killian’s shoulder again. “Sometimes,” Liam smiles, “I forget how young you are, brother. Did it ever occur to you that Emma might be too frightened to grow attached to you—to us, to this land?”

“W—what?” Killian stutters, frowning confusedly, “That doesn’t make sense, Liam—why would she be afraid?”

Liam smiles sadly and raises his shoulders in a lazy shrug. “Because she can’t stay. She will have to go back to her own land eventually… Perhaps she fears loving things here too much—fears losing _something_ she loves when she returns.” 

He hadn’t thought of it like that.

Killian suddenly feels like the most bone-headed idiot in the entire realm, shaking his head furiously. “But she—” he begins, desperately trying to refute Liam’s words, however much sense they make—so he’s afraid of the tidal wave of feelings Emma invokes within him; who wouldn’t be?

He barely knows her.

He knows, rationally, that affection and love take time to grow; it is only natural that it takes time—but with Emma… With Emma, he has never required time—his feelings for her just … are.

From the very instant he’d spotted her, adrift in the ocean, there had been something drawing him to her, urging him to dive in the water to get her out himself rather than use the ropes and the hook, like they did otherwise when there was a man—or woman, in this case—overboard.   

He’d never been in control when it came to her (and it _is_ frightening, if he is completely honest).

So why would it be so hard to believe that she might feel the same way?

“Fine,” he snaps petulantly, “Perhaps she _is_ afraid—but I do not wish to be tangled up in something without a future.” And as he says the words, he realizes how true they are.  
He’s terrified of falling for Emma—though honestly, he’s been falling since the second he laid eyes upon her—and of being forced to choose in the end.

If he and Emma were ever to truly fall in love, and she would return to her own land… He would not be able to let her walk out of his life.

And he wouldn’t want to.

He knows that.

And that would mean he would have to choose; choose between a life he could have with Emma and the life he _does_ have with his brother.

He’s not sure he could ever make that choice—so perhaps it is more prudent to just walk away now, before anyone would get too involved.

Liam sighs and drops his hands from Killian’s shoulder. “Don’t be a fool, Killian,” he says softly, “sometimes it’s alright to take a chance on something… _Someone_. Take that leap of faith.” Killian spins around, unsure if he’s heard Liam right—for a moment there, he could’ve sworn Liam was telling him to pursue Emma instead of letting her go.

“I would’ve thought you were against me taking that leap of faith,” he mutters in surprise, blinking confusedly.

Liam smiles kindly, pushing Killian aside to take the wheel. “I want you to be happy, Killian. And…” he hesitates, shaking his head, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you happier—she makes you _live_ , Killian. After just two weeks. I may be a skeptic bastard at times, but even I know love when I see it, brother. Even when the two of you don’t.”

Killian gapes at him, completely at a loss of words—love? _Love_?

No, no, no. It’s far too soon for him to be in love with Emma.

His cheeks are burning, and he’s still opening and closing his mouth, like a fish out of the water, trying desperately to find the words to deny the label his brother just put on the feelings he’s harboring for Emma—feelings he’s been trying to convince himself to forget about.

“Go talk to her,” Liam orders, smiling indulgently at his younger brother, “Figure this out, Killian. Don’t run away from it.” He shoos Killian away from the helm, nearly chasing him down the stairs, back to Killian’s quarters.

Breathing in deeply, attempting to sort out his tangled, muddled, confused thoughts, Killian leans his head against the wooden door, his fingers curled around the cold, brass doorknob.

 _You need this_ , he tells himself, _You both need to know. Man up, Jones, and bloody hell, ask the lass what she’s feeling._

Finally (he has no clue how long he’s been standing at the door, unmoving, frozen, drowning in his thoughts), he gathers all of his courage and nods.

Slowly, he pushes the door open, steeling himself for whatever fate lays awaiting him inside (and he really doesn’t have a clue that what awaits him inside _is_ fate).

“Emma?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

She hears the door open, but doesn’t look up, and doesn’t stop what she’s doing. She’s right to be doing this; it is for the best. “Emma?” She winces as he repeats her name,  but steels her resolve and does not look up to meet his eyes. She’s well aware that if she looks into his eyes, she will crumble, and she  _can’t_.

“Emma, what are you doing?” She swallows thickly and shoves the last piece of clothing into the duffel bag she had found in the back of one of the cupboards. “I’m packing,” she responds evenly, though on the inside, she’s crying and cursing her insecurities.

“I can see that,” Killian says tersely, and she can almost imagine him stiffening, glaring daggers at her back. “But  _why_?”

She closes her eyes, taking a deep breath to steady herself, before turning around to face him. “Because,” she explains slowly, trying to avoid looking at his eyes, “I don’t think me staying here is a good idea. I know we make port in two days, and though I’m very grateful for everything you and Liam have done for me, I think it’d be best if I disembark there and try to find my home on my own.”

He falls silent completely, and she can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows (and it really shouldn’t make her want to jump in his arms and beg him to never let her go), his entire body freezing as he processes her words.

“You—you wish to leave?” His voice is deep and hoarse, his accent thicker than usual, and it makes her shiver, even though it really shouldn’t.

“Yes,” she breathes, nodding, still refusing to look him in the eye, “Yes, I do. I want to go.” She hates doing this, and she hates saying it even more, because it’s just  _not_  true (but she  _has_  to, this can only end in heartbreak, and she  _can’t_  risk getting her heart broken), and she knows  _exactly_  what she has to say to make him walk away and accept this.

“I don’t wish for you to take care of me anymore,” she chokes, her voice thick, on the verge of tears, her eyes fixed on the top button of his vest, “I’ll be fine on my own, and we can both get back to our own lives.”

There’s a long, tense silence, and for a moment, Emma fears he’s going to fight her, force her to look him in the eye and repeat it, knowing she won’t be able to do it, but then he spits, “Of course. I will make sure arrangements are made for your departure, miss Swan.” And before she can say anything else, he spins around, stomping out of the cabin, slamming the door shut in his wake—and all she can do is flinch at the harsh sound.

 _It really is for the best_ , she nods to herself,  _he’s better off without me._

If only she could make herself believe those words.

.

.

.

She’s not sure how much time has passed, but the sky is darkening, and Killian hasn’t come back (not that she expected him to), nor has Liam or anyone else. She’s guessing that Killian told everyone to leave her alone for a bit—she’s grateful for that.  She doesn’t need to see anyone who will make her change her mind.

She feels horrible enough as it is; she’s been crying for hours after Killian left her alone. She still isn’t sure if it was because he left without a fight or because she hates having to tell herself it’s for the best over and over again—there’s this little voice nagging her, telling her that if it really were for the best, it wouldn’t hurt so much.

A glance at the duffel bag that she shoved in the corner when Killian left makes her heart clench painfully, and she swallows thickly, snuggling deeper into the pillows on the bed (they still smell like him, and it’s oddly comforting), pulling the sheet over her head too.

She’s feeling like crap, and she just wants to hide away in here until it’s time to leave.

It’s the easiest thing to do.

She’s plucking at the tiny little threads on the sheets when the door suddenly bursts open, and someone stumbles inside clumsily and quite loudly. “Bloody hell,” the intruder curses under his breath, slightly slurring his words—Emma’s heart stutters a little as she recognizes Killian, and she shoots up, out of the bed to help him back to his feet without even thinking about it.

“No, no, no,” Killian rambles drunkenly, pushing her away clumsily, stumbling back to lean against the wall, “Don’t do that,” he spits, “You can’t …” Emma’s not sure what to make of it; she’s never  _ever_  seen Killian drunk before, and according to Liam, he’s never actually  _been_  drunk before either.

“Killian, what are you doing?” She whispers, her lower lip trembling a little (Dear God, please don’t let him be drunk because of her), taking a slow step back, giving him the space he so clearly wants from her.

“I don’t know!” He moans, running his fingers through his hair, “I have no idea what I’m doing—not since I met you!” He looks up at her, his beautiful blue eyes bloodshot and wet with tears, “And Liam’s right, and I hate it so much, because I can’t do anything about it because  _you_ , you won’t let me take care of you anymore!” She barely gets the chance to process his rambling before he stumbles forward, colliding with her, his hands suddenly hot on her cheeks, the heavy, spicy scent of rum invading her nostrils.

“Why won’t you just let me love you?” he breathes against her lips—her heart stutters, and she chokes.

Love?

No, no. He couldn’t have—no.

“Killian,” she pleads, her fingers wrapping around both his wrists, “Please, don’t…” He can’t say things like that—things that make her heart skip a beat and butterflies flutter in her stomach and that make her want to stay and trust him and  _love_  him—he’s making her resolve crumble.

“I love you so damn much,” he chokes, his lips now so close to hers that she can feel their lips brush every time he speaks. “And I hate that you don’t feel it too—I can’t believe you don’t feel it too—there’s no way that all this is one-sided. Please, Emma,” a tear rolls down his cheek, and her heart damn well nearly shatters at how  _desperate_  and pained he sounds. “Please don’t leave me. Not you—please.”

Emma chokes a little, but nods slowly and pulls Killian towards the bed, “Okay, Killian, come on, sit down.” He lets her push him down meekly, only protesting when she pulls away from him, at which point he wraps his arms around her waist and buries his face against her stomach (it just makes her giggle; his scruff tickles the skin that had been exposed when her shirt rode up).

She winces when he, once again, whispers that he loves her, and that he wants to take care of her, and says nothing in return; she doesn’t know what to say. Instead, she runs her fingers through his unruly hair, knowing that it always soothes him—and she needs him to be calm, so he can just lay down and sleep it off.

“You need to lay down,” she says softly, goose bumps springing up on her arms when he just mumbles sleepily in response and tightens his arms around her waist. “No,” he moans, “I don’t want to let you go. You’ll go away.”

She closes her eyes for a moment, a tear rolling down her cheek, and then bends down to press her lips to the top of his head. “Lay down, Killian,” she orders gently, pushing him down onto the mattress, pulling off his boots and his jacket before pulling the sheets from underneath him and covering him with them.

“Don’t leave,” he whispers, tugging on her hand, “Stay with me.”

She hesitates for a long moment, before sighing in defeat and smiling sadly as she crawls into the bed with him, allowing him to pull her into his arms. She giggles a little when he grumbles, pulling her against him tightly as he buries his nose in her hair.

“I love you, Emma,” he breathes against her, his entire body relaxing as he falls asleep.

She lays in his arms, thinking, worrying, brooding for a long time after he falls asleep, her fingers sliding over his hand slowly, reverently, as she considers all the reasons why she had decided to leave earlier today.

But no matter how many times she goes over them, they all pale in comparison to the one reason that makes her want to stay.

She tightens her fingers around his, pressing their joint hands onto her stomach as she snuggles deeper into Killian’s embrace, her eyes drifting shut slowly—her mind is still spinning; but she’s accepted one, fundamental thing that she just can’t change.

She loves him too.

.

.

.

The sharp whistle sounds clear and loud on the cold, dark deck, and Liam frowns a little when, like the first three times he’d made Stiles whistle, there’s no response from his Lieutenant whatsoever.

It’s not like Killian to not respond to the change of watch—even when he had been preoccupied with everything involving miss Swan, he had always come running, or at least arranged for someone else to take his watch.

Liam sighs and shakes his head—he knows Killian went to talk to miss Swan about their… romantic relationship, but that was hours ago; no one has seen either lovebird since. While he does know what every other man on this ship is thinking (and it is quite obvious; they’re all positively  _leering_ , smirking at the thought of their Lieutenant being anything but the prim and proper bastard he’d always been), he also realizes that it  is most unlikely.

He sincerely doubts whether miss Swan would simply allow his brother into her bed this easily.

He is no fool—it is a likely possibility—but he does not believe it to be true.

“Jukes!” He bellows, gesturing for Stiles to take the wheel, “Where’s Lieutenant Jones?” The man fidgets nervously—which Liam takes as his first clue that something is not quite right—and looks down at his shoes rather than face him. “I don’t know, Cap’n,” Jukes says slowly—and not convincing enough to fool Liam.

“Jukes,” he threatens, staring the man down, “Where is the Lieutenant?”

“I’m not telling you no lies, Cap’n,” the man stutters, “I’ve no clue where the Lieutenant be now.” Liam pushes down his impatience and breathes in deeply, glaring at the midshipman icily. “Then where was he earlier?” The man’s fidgeting intensifies, before one of the men standing behind him—Carrows, Liam realizes—exclaims, “He took all our rum, Cap’n. He didn’t toss ‘em this time; he drank ‘em all and then went back to see the lady, Cap’n. We haven’t seen him since.”

Liam’s stomach churns uncomfortably, and he glares at his men for a long, tense moment, before he decides he can deal with them later—his little brother is his first priority right now. Angrily, frustrated, he stomps down the stairs and towards Killian’s cabin, where he’s certain he’ll find both his brother and miss Swan, not bothering to be quiet or subtle.

He’s not sure what his brother had been thinking—Killian excels at being a Lieutenant, at living up to the expectations—but if he really  _did_ drink himself into a stupor in front of the crew, Killian will have to face the consequences.

Open drunkenness is not tolerated in His Majesty’s Royal Navy.

He pushes open the door to Killian’s cabin, striding in, ready to chastise his brother before Killian can get a word in edgewise, but the sight that greets him stops him dead in his tracks; and suddenly, he doesn’t remember why he had been so upset with his  _young_ , young brother.

Killian lays on his back in his bed, snoring softly, while Emma is peacefully sleeping next to (and half on top of) him, the sheet tangled around them both, Emma’s head resting on Killian’s chest and both of Killian’s arms wrapped around her.  

He stares for a moment longer, almost mesmerized by the blissful smile on his brother’s face, before he smiles and leaves the cabin quietly.

He’ll lecture him tomorrow.

.

.

.

Emma wakes up to Killian stroking his fingers over her forehead, her nose, her eyes, her lips—every part of her that he can reach. She hums softly, leaning into his caresses almost without thinking about it, pushing her lower lip out into a pout when his fingers still.

Her eyelashes flutter against his palm when she opens her eyes, and she can feel him shiver from where they’re still snuggled against each other.

She has to admit… Waking up next to him…

Not the worst feeling in the world.

“Hi,” she whispers hoarsely when he stays silent, his eyes dark and unreadable—she doesn’t know what to make of him right now, and it scares her.

Does he remember the things he told her before he passed out?

“Are you—” she chokes slightly, “Are you feeling okay?” There’s not a trace of a hangover about him (which does make her wonder if he really was  _that_  drunk), no trace of liquor at all; the only reminder is the harsh smell of rum that still hangs in his clothes.

He’s silent for a moment longer, before he sighs and drops his hands to her waist, seemingly subconsciously caressing the sheet-covered skin. “I’m quite alright,” he responds finally, his accent still thicker than usual, his voice gruff with sleep. Emma shivers a little when his fingers sweep over a patch of bare skin, her own fingers seeking out his shirt almost automatically.

“About,” she starts slowly, biting her lip nervously, “about last night—” Before she can finish her sentence (and she isn’t sure what the end of that sentence would have been), Killian interrupts, laying his hand atop hers, closing his fingers around hers gently. “I meant it,” he whispers, his eyes locked on hers—and she just  _can’t_  look away from him. “I meant everything that I said,” he continues, “I do love you—and I am well aware of the insanity of the whole situation, but Emma…” he smiles weakly and reaches down to stroke her cheek, “I wouldn’t wish it any different. I don’t want you to leave—and I most certainly do not want to let you go.”

“Even though I messed up your perfect life?” She whispers uncertainly, unable to truly grasp what he’s telling her. Killian’s eyes darken slightly, and he shakes his head, leaning in to press a feather light kiss to her lips—it’s over before she realizes, before she gets the chance to really kiss him back. “You are what makes my life perfect,” he vows, smiling at her (and damn her, but her heart skips another beat, and all she wants now is to wrap herself around him and never let him go again).

“What happens when I go home?” She chokes, blinking furiously to keep her treacherous tears at bay; she has to be happy now; he’s not lying, he does love her (or at least, he’s convinced that he does); she shouldn’t be crying her eyes out. Killian shrugs a little, pulling her a little closer, smiling brightly at her. “We’ll deal with it,” he replies, moving his fingers into her hair, “We’ll deal with anything—I just need you.”

“I’m scared,” she finally admits, wiggling closer to him so she can hide her face against his chest. Call her crazy, but she’s still terrified of him growing tired of her, or of him deciding she’s not worth the trouble after all. “As am I, darling,” he whispers, his lips brushing over her hair, “but I’m willing to take that leap of faith. Are you?”

It hits her then, that he’s absolutely serious—he  _wants_ to take that leap of faith for her. It’s all up to her now, and that scares the crap out of her. Her heart clenches as she stares at him, trying desperately to convince herself that it’s not a bad thing to tell him she loves him too.

After all, he’s already laid his own heart bare before her.

He wouldn’t crush hers if she shows him—she knows he wouldn’t.

She’s admitted it to herself, she can say it again; her throat seems constricted, and she's not sure she remembers how to talk.

"I—" she chokes, "I—"

Killian swallows thickly, but smiles sadly, understandingly, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “I know, love, I know,” he whispers against her skin. “Try something new, darling. It’s called trust.”

Emma lets a shuddering breath fall from her lips, shaking a little as she swallows thickly a few times, trying to convince herself that she is okay—she’s fine.

Killian’s one of the good ones.

She knows this.

"Sorry," she mutters, casting her gaze down to the (this time unbuttoned) top button of his vest.

She breathes in deeply, trying to find the courage to tell him that she  _does_  want to trust him, that she  _does_ want to be with him, but she feels like she's only able to reach it with the tips of her fingers—she's absolutely terrified of confirming her feelings for him. "Promise you won't hurt me," she breathes, realizing she  _needs_  that answer; she  _needs_  to know that he's not just playing with her.

Killian shakes his head at her, leaning in slowly to caress her lips with his. She kisses him back slowly, almost automatically, her heart skipping a few beats. Reluctantly, he leans away again and smiles at her, whispering, "I promise, my love."

"Okay," she breathes shakily, "Okay." Slowly, she leans in again, pressing her lips to his again—she's craving how safe she feels when he's touching her, even though that fact on itself scares her. He kisses her back—oh, he  _really_  kisses her back—but he breaks the kiss far too soon for her taste, leaning his forehead against hers.

“I will not let you go, Emma,” he whispers, “I love you, lass, and I will always fight for you.” She bites her lip, sliding her leg up, over his, to pull him closer, and smiles lightly. “Good,” she breathes, “because I love you too.”

The breath she takes next is the last one she takes for a while as he pounces on her (and God, she  _loves_  every second of it).

.

.

.

**Jewel Of The Realm  
 _(Two Months Later)_**

She’s standing at the helm, gazing at the setting sun with awe—she’s watched the sunset (and sunrise) many times with Killian since she’s been here, but its beauty takes her by surprise every single time.

She also wishes to enjoy every minute she has left on the ship; they are on their way back to the capitol, where Killian and Liam will receive their permission for their annual three-month leave, before they have to take another assignment from the King.

Both Killian and Liam have already stated that she won’t be allowed to accompany them on another one of their assignments though, and she absolutely hates it.

Killian has offered to let her stay with Liam’s wife and daughter (she’d had no idea he was married), until he returned, and for now, she has accepted; but she still feels weird about staying with a stranger for months until her … Well, she’s not sure  _what_  he is, returns.

“Hello love,” Killian’s voice draws her from her thoughts, his arms sliding around her waist, pulling her back to rest against his chest. “Enjoying the sight?” She hums in agreement, her entire body involuntarily relaxing in his arms, “I just still can’t believe how beautiful it is.” He chuckles, the vibration against her back making her skin tingle, and responds, “Aye, it is quite the sight.”

She doesn’t even have to look at him to know he’s not looking at the setting sun. She slaps his arm half-heartedly and grumbles, “I was talking about the sun, Killian!”

“And I was speaking of the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes upon,” he responds smoothly, pecking her cheek quickly, “And how I still marvel that she allows me to call her mine.” Emma closes her eyes for a moment and rests her head against his chest, soothed by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Moments like these have been numerous in the past few months, and she still cannot bring herself to regret the decision to let Killian in; it’s the best thing she has ever done.

“I love you,” she whispers, resting her hands on top of his, the pair of them swaying lightly with the waves that roll against the ship. Killian rests his cheek against her forehead and smiles lightly, tightening his embrace on her slightly. “I love you.”

They fall silent for a long, comfortable moment, before Killian suddenly turns her in his arms, cupping her face in his hands. “Emma, love,” he starts, his voice shaking lightly, “Do you truly love me?”

Emma frowns in confusion, but nods and smiles at him. “Of course I do, Killian, you know that.” He swallows thickly, and Emma wonders confusedly what’s wrong with him. “What would you say if I told you I wished for you to be by my side for the rest of our lives?”

She smiles brightly, reaching up to wrap her fingers around his wrist. “I would say that sounds perfect.” He nods jerkily, his fingers tightening a little around her face as he breathes out, his entire body shaking with what she finally recognizes as nerves. “Killian, what’s going on?” She questions slowly, frowning a little.

“Emma,” he whispers, “I love you. And… I meant it—I do wish for us to spend the rest of our lives together.” She blanches a little when she realizes where he’s going, and her heart stops when he finally lets the words fall from his lips.

“Will you do me the honor of being my wife, Emma, my love?”

Well, shit.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Emma snuggles deeper into the sheets—the bed is warm and comfortable, and though she can hear that most of the crew (including Liam, if the shouting overhead is any indication) is already up and about, she really does not feel like getting up.

She sighs a little, rolling over, to look at the man she loves.

The man that asked her to marry him no more than a couple of hours ago.

She swallows, raising her hand to touch his face delicately—but she’s instantly distracted by the soft glittering of the silver ring on her finger. Her heart jumps a little in her chest and an involuntary smile spreads across her lips at the memory of the previous night.

.

.

.

_“Oh,” she chokes, staring Killian’s expectant face, “Ye—I—I mean—No,” she stutters, wincing when Killian’s smile falls immediately. “No?” He echoes, taking a small step away from her, but she tightens her grip on his hands, not letting him move away any further. “No, I mean, yes,” she stammers, “I—you’re proposing?”_

_Killian smiles weakly and nods, squeezing her hands, “I am. I thought… Perhaps—you—I…” he hesitates and shrugs a little, “I love you.” A blush creeps up his cheeks and she bites her lip with how adorable he looks—it reminds her of all the reasons she loves him, the reasons she’s decided to put her search for a way back to her own world on hold indefinitely._

_“And I love you,” she says softly, tugging him closer, “Ask me again.” His eyes widen, and she can see his confusion—it makes her smile. “Ask me again, Killian,” she repeats, smiling softly._

_“Be my wife?” He whispers, so softly she almost doesn’t hear him. Her heart skips several beats, and her breathing constricts for a moment as she stares into his oh-so-blue eyes, contemplating her answer and its consequences for a long moment before she smiles and squeezes his hands tightly._

_“Yes,” she whispers, tears of happiness welling up in her eyes, “I’ll be your wife.”_

.

.

.

She smiles again, gently touching the silver ring he had given her as an engagement ring—Liam had told them both it had been his and Killian’s mother’s, once upon a time, and he had taken it with him when he left home, so his father couldn’t sell it to pay off his gambling debts.

The ring is beautiful; a simple silver band set with one clear-cut, modest diamond; and she loves it already. She jumps when Killian’s hand suddenly moves, catching hers and pulling it down to his lips. He presses a soft, gentle kiss to her palm before leaning in and pressing one kiss on each cheek before finally moving to kiss her lips.

“Good morning, my love,” he says softly, his hand sliding down her spine, finally settling on the small of her back. She can feel that ridiculously happy smile tugging on her lips again (honestly, she is such a _girl_ when she’s with him) and sighs contently. “Morning handsome,” she responds with a teasing wink, sliding her fingers through his hair, “I think they’re waiting for you on deck.”

He hums contently, leaning into her touch (she suppresses the urge to giggle; her Lieutenant— _fiancé_ , she reminds herself, _fiancé_ —is adorable like this). “I suppose they are,” he mumbles with a slight pout, “I should not keep them waiting. Liam gave me hell last time I missed a watch.”

She giggles and nods, leaning forward to press a kiss to his lips again. “You were drunk that time,” she reminds him, “I think he was more upset about that than about you missing your watch.” Killian chuckles throatily, nuzzling his nose against her neck, “Hmmm,” he breathes, “I’m drunk on you now, my love.”

She giggles as his scruff scratches at the sensitive skin of her throat, and tangles her fingers in his hair, tugging on it a little, “Yes,” she moans when he presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to her neck, “But I don’t think Liam will buy that as a viable excuse.”

Killian pouts against her and mumbles, “He bloody well should. We are engaged now, after all.”

“Yes, we are,” she smiles, hugging him close. Killian smiles happily and presses his lips firmly to her temple, wrapping her in his arms.

Emma lets a content sigh fall from her lips—she’s just _so_ happy; she doesn’t even care that she’s stuck in a dream or another time and realm (or whatever Killian had called it); for the first time in her life, she’s genuinely happy. 

“You do realize Liam will come get you if you take too long,” she breathes, nuzzling further  into his warm embrace, “ _again_. He’ll drag you out of bed.” Killian growls in protest, tightening  his arms around her—he has no desire of going out to face every smug crewmember out there.  

He’s staying right there.

“No,” he whines, “I don’t want to.” She raises an eyebrow at him, trying to hide the amused smile that’s pulling at the corner of her lips. He smirks wickedly at her and pushes her onto her back, wedging his body between her thighs.

Her breath hitches as his hips press onto hers—as many times they have shared his bed, they have not actually gone any further than passionate kisses and heated touches—and she whispers, “What are you doing?”

“Celebrating our engagement,” he grins, nipping on her earlobe, relishing in the soft gasp that falls from her lips. The last thought that crosses Emma’s mind as Killian captures her lips with his is that maybe he’s right—celebrating their engagement is a far better use of their time than letting him take watch.

Far, far better.

.

.

.

Liam chuckles when his brother finally appears on deck, well over an hour late for his watch, his hair sticking up every which way and his waistcoat buttoned hastily (and not very well). He’s more than a little amused to see Killian so flustered; evidently, so are most of the men. “Good morning brother,” Liam smirks, raising an amused eyebrow when Killian stumbles up to the helm, re-doing the buttons of his waistcoat, “How generous of you to finally grace us with your presence.”

He grins at his brother’s red cheeks, clapping his hand on Killian’s shoulder. “Now, do you think you can pull your thoughts from your wife-to-be for long enough to steer us into the harbor?”

He merely smiles at the glare Killian sends him, shouting out several orders for the men lingering on deck. He understands Killian’s reluctance to pull himself away from Emma for even a moment—he himself had been that way when he and Prue had been newlywed; even now, after many years together, he still adores her as much as he did the day they met.

“Do you miss them?” Killian’s voice pulls him from his thoughts, “Prudence and Rose?” A wistful smile tugs on Liam’s lips, and, as he watches Killian maneuver the ship into the harbor expertly, hope that both of his girls will be waiting on the docks for him rising once again—he had sent word to the King only yesterday that they were no more than a day away; it is entirely possible (and very likely) that his wife had somehow gotten word of their arrival and would be waiting with their little girl.

“Aye, I do,” he says softly, “Leaving them breaks my heart every time; but I love the sea as much as I love them… I would not be able to sit still on land for more than those three months we are allotted.”

He barely notices the frown upon his brother’s face at that, and only looks back at him when he grumbles, “I cannot imagine leaving her. Not seeing her every day.” Liam laughs, shaking his head at Killian’s sullen tone.

“Oh, just you wait, dear brother. One day, you will be begging for assignments just to get away from your lovely miss Swan—it is a day every married man faces.” He chuckles at the look of disbelief on Killian’s face and shakes his head again.

To be young and so deeply in love…

He knows Killian is not the most experienced man when it comes to women and matters of the heart, but sometimes, Liam catches himself forgetting that he _is_ ten years Killian’s senior, and that he has seen far more of the world that his little brother. “You should not worry about such matters yet, brother,” he finally says, moving to stand next to Killian as he watches his brother and his men work completely in sync to dock the Jewel, “You are soon to be wed; you only proposed yesterday. Enjoy this blissfulness while it lasts.”

He frowns lightly when Killian doesn’t bother responding, but then notices the reason for his brother’s inattention; Emma has just appeared on deck, dressed in a simple green-and-grey dress that Liam has never seen her wear before (then again, he supposes practicality does demand breeches and tunics rather than dresses to be worn aboard the ship).

He cannot blame Killian for losing his attention; she does look _stunning_ , despite the dress’s simplicity, and perhaps even because of it. Her long, blonde curls hang loosely down her back, and for the first time, Liam can truly see the woman that has his little brother all tied up in knots. He is no fool, nor is he blind; Emma is a beautiful girl; but he had never before truly grasped _why_ Killian had fallen head over heels in love with her.

He can see it now though; he can see the beauty that captured his brother’s heart.

“Alright,” he exclaims, pulling Killian from the wheel playfully, “Go hug your lovely fiancée, I’ll finish docking.” He chuckles when Killian splutters in protest for a few moments before grumbling and practically running down to wrap his arms around Emma.

Liam grins, noting that most of the men seem amused with Killian’s behavior too, before they all return to their tasks. He turns his gaze back to the horizon, smiling to himself when he sees two figures stand out in the crowd on the docks.

He’s home.

.

.

.

“Papa!”

The high-pitched cry echoes over the noise on the docks, and Emma watches with a small smile as a little girl—no older than five or six—bounces up the gangway, running past the laughing and smiling crewmembers and leaping in Liam’s waiting arms.

She stares, a little awed to see Liam—tough, no-nonsense Naval Captain—slip into the role of loving father effortlessly; but it suits him. She turns to Killian, her heart stuttering when she catches herself wondering if he’ll be a good father too.

 _Oh no_ , she shakes her head, _far too soon to think about that._

Instead, she smiles at her fiancé (God, she really loves calling him that) and says, “So, that’s Rose, right?” Killian nods slowly, his smile softening as he looks at his brother and his niece. “Aye,” he replies, curling his arm around her waist, “She looks more and more like her mother every time I see her. She’s so big already.” There’s a feint trace of nostalgia in his tone, and Emma can’t help but smile—it’s adorable.

She turns to him, stroking his cheek softly, biting her lip. “What?” he asks softly, his blue eyes sparkling with something she’s not sure how to identify. She smiles, shaking her head slowly, “Nothing,” she whispers, “I love you.”

His smile is beautiful and sweet and breathtaking and her heart skips a beat when he leans in to brush his lips on her forehead. “And I you, darling,” he whispers, “And have I mentioned how _ravishing_ you look?” She giggles (internally rolling her eyes at her own behavior) and nods, pressing a kiss to his scruffy jaw. “You did,” she smiles, “several times.”

He chuckles and continues holding her close for another long, sweet moment, before they’re interrupted by a beautiful woman with long, curly red hair, who smiles kindly at the pair of them, before moving to hug Killian. Emma winces when she’s hit with a very irrational pang of jealousy (she’s not stupid; she knows this is Liam’s wife), but she hates watching any other woman touch _her_ Lieutenant.

Especially gorgeous, tall, perfect women, even if they are married to his brother.

“Prue,” Killian smiles broadly when the woman has _finally_ let go of him, “This is Emma,” he pulls her closer by her hand, “my fiancée.” Emma squeezes his hand tightly (and ignores how he shoots a confused look her way) and smiles at Liam’s wife—Prue, was it?—holding out her hand to shake Prue’s.

“Hi,” she smiles broadly, “nice to meet you. Liam and Killian told me so much about you.” Prue smiles back and shakes her hand, nodding, “I’m so glad Killian found someone; though I’m sure Rose will be devastated—she wanted to marry him when she turned sixteen,” she adds, winking at Emma. Killian chuckles and glances towards where Liam and Rose are standing, “I’m sure she’ll live.”

Prue merely smiles at them before excusing herself and hurrying towards her husband and her daughter. Emma watches her go, releasing a heavy sigh when Prue reaches Liam—she’s not sure why she’s suddenly so … Possessive of Killian, but she just…

She hates knowing that she’s not the only one realizing just how handsome her Lieutenant is.

She’s just glad he didn’t notice.

“What was that, love?”

She winces. Okay—maybe she isn’t as subtle as she thinks she is.

Determined not to admit how stupid she’s being, she bites her lip and looks up at him from beneath her eyelashes. “What do you mean?” she smiles innocently, lacing her fingers with his, and turning to face him.

He smirks a little, brushing his fingers over her forehead gently, pushing a stray curl behind her ear. “That,” he chuckles, tapping her nose playfully, “That look right there. Was there something Prue said that offended you, darling?” His playful smile transforms into a frown, and she winces slightly, shaking her head.

“No,” she hastens, “No, no, no. I just…” She sighs and slides her arms around his waist tentatively, resting her head on his shoulder. “I’m being silly. It’s just so overwhelming—you and me, and then all this… It’s just a lot sometimes. I mean—it was okay when we were just on the ship, but now… Here…” She closes her eyes and melts into Killian’s embrace. “It’s not just us anymore,” she breathes, “and _maybe_ I get a little _possessive_. I don’t like sharing.”

She pouts a little when she feels his chest rumble with laughter—she didn’t mean for him to laugh at her.

Bad, bad Lieutenant.

“There’s nothing to share, love,” he chuckles, lifting her chin so he can look her in the eye, “I’m all yours. I always have been.” Her heart melts a little at the sincere look on his face, and damn her, but she can’t stop the ridiculously girlish giggle that falls from her lips as he leans in to press a kiss to her lips.

When he breaks the kiss, her gaze drifts back to where Liam and his family are standing, and slowly, an idea forms. “Hey, Killian?” She asks slowly, not taking her eyes off his brother, “In my world, when you want to be married, you can either do so in a city hall, or you can be married by another that has been ordained…”

“Alright,” Killian drawls hesitantly. She grins and turns back to him, curling her fingers in his jacket. “In my world, a captain is allowed to solemnize the marriage.” Understanding dawns in his eyes, and the smile that spreads across his lips is bright and beautiful and makes her want to do a lot of _very_ improper things to him, considering they are in public, and his brother, sister-in-law and niece are standing three feet from them.

“Aye,” he replies, “That is a custom our worlds share.”

She bites her lip and nods excitedly, “So… Are we agreeing on this?” Killian smiles and presses a kiss to her forehead, but nods. “We’ll have to ask him first, love.”

“He’ll say yes,” she tightens her grip on Killian’s vest, “He has to. He’ll love it.”  

Killian gently untangles himself from her embrace (and she doesn’t pout. At all. Well…Maybe just a little bit), taking her hand in his, leading her to where his brother and his family are talking, “Then we should ask him, should we not?”

Emma smiles brightly and nods, squeezing his hand. “Yes, yes, we should.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

On the day of her wedding, Emma wakes up alone (most definitely _not_ by her own choice; Liam and Prue had insisted she and Killian spent the night apart—something about propriety and good form), blinking at the ceiling sleepily. She can hear the commotion and flurry of activity in the house already, despite the early hour.  When Killian had proposed to her, she had not realized how big of a deal the Navy would make out of this—but apparently, she’s getting married to one of their most promising young officers and a personal favorite of the King.

Though Killian has been able to convince everyone that they wanted to keep it small and modest, they still have a guest list of over 200 people—and she doesn’t even know most of them. She’s only met a few of Killian’s fellow officers and friends, and other than that, she has only spent time with Prue and Rose.

She’s inherently relieved that Liam will be the one marrying them—she really was not that big on an anonymous city official or a priest.

She kicks the sheets to the end of the bed and sighs shakily. “I’m getting married today,” she whispers, pressing her left hand to her chest, “Holy shit. I’m actually getting married today.” She continues staring at the ceiling for a little while longer, trying to actually process that she is going to commit her entire life and love to someone she met a mere four months ago.

It’s a terrifying thought.

Not that her feelings for Killian have diminished—if anything, her feelings for him have grown more intense and deeper—, it’s just a very scary thought. Not so long ago, she’d believed she’d never love anyone and never let anyone in ever again.

Now, she’s in a different realm and time, about to get married to a young Naval Lieutenant and committing to a life she’d never even dared to imagine. She cannot wait though, despite the fear that keeps nagging at her in the back of her mind. She _wants_ to be married to Killian.

She wants to be his.

She’s ready to be Mrs. Emma Jones.

“Auntie Emma!” The door to her bedchambers bursts open and suddenly she finds herself with a lapful of hyperactive, giggly six-year-old. She hugs Rose back, giggling along with the little girl—she loves spending time with Rose; the girl is absolutely adorable. “Are you nervous?” Rose asks, tugging on one of Emma’s curls, looking up at her with her with the same big blue eyes that make her weak in the knees when Killian uses them on her.

“A little bit,” Emma smiles, pressing a kiss to Rose’s forehead, “But I love your Uncle Killy—so it’ll all be fine.”

“Ah,” Prue smiles when she appears in the doorway, “I hope she did not wake you—I couldn’t stop her.” Emma smiles gently at Prue (she’s still a little uncomfortable when she sees Prue talk to Killian, even though she knows the woman is completely devoted to Liam) and shakes her head. “No, I was up.”

Prue smiles and settles at the edge of Emma’s bed, smiling when her daughter crawls from Emma’s lap into her own. “I ran a bath soaked with lilies for you,” Prue tells her, “After, I will help you groom for the ceremony.”

Emma swallows thickly and nods, turning her engagement ring on her finger nervously. “Are there many people already?” She inquires softly, her eyes flitting towards the open door. Prue squeezes her hand lightly and smiles comfortingly. “Yes, there are,” she nods, “Killian and Liam are among the pride of the King’s Navy; my wedding to Liam was even worse—there were so many people, some had to wait outside the city hall until we had spoken our vows.”

That does _not_ help settle Emma’s nerves.

Prue seems to realize this and smiles at her, nodding towards the bathroom, “Go, take your bath. Relax, you have plenty of time before you are expected to arrive at the city hall. Liam told me he would send word once he and Killian arrived.”

“Okay,” Emma breathes, lacing her fingers together to hide how badly her hands are shaking by now. She’s excited and nervous and terrified all at the same time, and she really kind of wishes she could take Killian back to her world so they could elope in Vegas or something; it might be tacky, but all she needs is him.

She doesn’t really care _how_ she gets him, as long as she does.

“Okay,” she breathes, “I’ll go… Take that bath then.” Her voice is shaky, and she hopes Prue doesn’t think she’s having second thoughts—she might mention it to Killian, and it would break his heart, even though it’s not true at all.

Prue nods and smiles as they both get up from the bed. “I will have someone prepare a light breakfast for you; just call for me when you are done—I will come help you prepare.” With that, Prue exits the room, pulling her daughter out the door with her, leaving Emma to her thoughts.

“Okay then,” Emma drawls, running her fingers through her hair, glancing towards the bathroom door, “Here I go.” She moves off the bed and stumbles into the bathroom, greedily inhaling the delicious, yet subtle scent of the lilies.

She eyes the bath for a long moment and then (after checking that she _is_ quite alone) jumps up and down and lets a girlish squeal escape from her lips.

“I’m getting married today!”

.

.

.

Meanwhile, across town, Killian is staring at his official navy dress blues, trying to get his own nerves and excitement under control. He’s more than a little eager to start the day, to watch his Swan walk down the aisle, to make her his wife, so they can start their life together.

“Killian!” He’s roughly pulled from his thoughts by his friends and brother crashing through the door, all three of them looking equally hung over—he chuckles a little; they had tried to get him drunk last night, Liam claiming it was a rite of passage, but he’s fairly certain they all drank at least twice as much as he did.

To be honest, Horatio looks like he’s about to keel over.

Not that Liam and Archie look so much better, he observes with a smirk. “Well, good morning to you too, gentlemen,” Killian chuckles, running his fingers through his hair, several strands falling loose from his ponytail.

Horatio gives him a shove, crashing down onto Killian’s bed with a loud groan. “I’m never drinking again,” he moans into the pillow, causing the other three men in the room to burst out laughing. “I cannot believe that my two mates and brother will be hung over on my wedding day,” Killian grumbles playfully, rolling his eyes as he gets up to get dressed.

“Especially you,” he points at Liam accusingly, “You are leading the entire ceremony.”

Liam merely rolls his eyes at his little brother and claps Archie on the shoulder. “Oh, Killian, don’t be a bore; your betrothed would have approved of us going out to have a good time.” Killian opens his mouth to argue, struggling to get his shirt on properly, when he realizes Liam might actually be quite right.

He’s quite sure that Emma would have encouraged Liam to get him drunk (he’s not even sure if she didn’t). “Fine, fine,” he chuckles, “but my betrothed will also be the one to have your head if you mess up the ceremony.”

Archie breaks from Liam’s side, nodding along with Killian’s words while helping a green-looking Horatio sit up. “Heed those words, my friend,” he chuckles, “Emma is quite the spitfire.”

Liam holds up his hands in defeat, laughing as he strolls over to smooth out the creases in Killian’s jacket. “You look quite dapper, brother,” Liam smiles proudly, patting Killian’s shoulder, “Emma is a lucky woman.” Killian smiles nervously, running a comb through his hair quickly, before tying it back in a neat ponytail.

“I’m fairly certain that I am the lucky one in this union,” he breathes, tugging on his cravat nervously.  “Oh, that you are,” Archie laughs, shaking his head while helping Horatio towards the bathroom, “That you are.”

It takes them only a little while to get everyone up and ready to go, and by the time they leave, Killian is nearly bouncing up and down with nerves and excitement. Liam smiles every time he catches sight of his fidgety brother, and both Horatio and Archie (though the former is still a bit pale and shaky) keep teasing Killian about it.

When they arrive at the city hall, Killian is slightly taken aback by how grand and elaborately it is decorated. Orange flowers, blossoms and many other flowers he cannot identify adorn every available surface, and the second he sees it, he knows Emma will love it—even though he also knows she won’t ever admit it to anyone but him.

Liam walks up behind him and claps his hand on Killian’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. “They are on their way. Are you ready, brother?”

Killian breathes in shakily, a smile spreading across his lips. “Aye,” he nods, “Aye, I am.”

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.

.

Emma tugs on her wavy, perfectly curled hair, biting her lip nervously as she stares into the mirror. The tight ball of nerves that is her stomach has only grown tighter in the past few hours, and her heart is trying to beat its way out of her chest.

Seeing herself in a wedding dress is more than a little surreal, and however much she feels ready to be Killian’s wife, it’s still a terrifying notion. She fidgets lightly with the long sleeves on the dress, trying not to look at Prue, who’s standing behind her to arrange the veil on her curls. “Are you feeling okay, Emma?”

She breathes out shakily, nodding slowly. “Yeah. I mean, yes. I’m just—” She smoothes her hands over the tight bodice of the dress, grumbling under her breath when the corset constricts the deep breath she wants to take again.

God, she _hates_ that particular garment in this world.

“I’m nervous,” she finishes, smiling tightly at Liam’s wife. “Ah,” Prue smiles sympathetically, “Simply think of Killian until you walk down the aisle… The very moment you see him, all will be well.” Emma nods slowly, turning her eyes back to the mirror. She barely recognizes herself; she looks so much older…

Grown up.

“Come,” Prue smiles, handing her the small bouquet, “It is time to leave. I have sent word to Killian and Liam that we are on our way.”

The whole ride to the city hall is a haze, and all that truly registers in Emma’s mind is that she’s in a freaking horse-drawn carriage. This is turning out like a fucking fairytale and she’s not sure what to do with that—so she ignores it.

All she thinks about is that her sweet, loving Lieutenant is waiting for her, and that he’ll love her no matter what. She needs to believe that—she does, even though it’s still hard to wrap her head around the fact that he _does_ , in fact, love her.

They arrive at the city hall at noon, and the very moment the carriage pulls up to the city hall steps, the bells start ringing, announcing the bride’s arrival to the entire city (and by the looks of it, most of the city is gathered in and around the city hall, which is _not_ good for her already frayed nerves). She’s ushered into the city hall quickly, and it’s not until she sees Archie waiting for her by the door (he’s the one to escort her down the aisle, since she has no male family to give her away) that it really hits.

Holy shit.

This is actually happening.

Prue sends her a quick smile before she heads inside, following little Rose, who’s tossing the rose petals she’s holding everywhere, and then the music changes and Archie holds out his arm for her with a soft smile and…

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

She eyes him warily, her nerves completely shot to hell by now, and places her (shaking) hand on his arm, trying to return his smile—she’s not sure if she’s convincing though. Archie grins and leans in, whispering, “He’s nervous too, if it’s any comfort,” in her ear.

She’s not sure why, but she _is_ strangely comforted by that.

Archie leads her to the large double doors, halting for a moment to wait for their cue. “You ready, Emma?” he asks softly, offering her  a small smile. She takes a deep breath (or whatever goes for a deep breath here, with the stupid corset), and nods slowly. “I am.”

She is.

She really is.

They wait for a long moment more, before Archie leads her through the double doors—and she can’t stop the small gasp of surprise that falls from her lips at the sight that awaits her. She’d been lead to expect extravagance, a crowd of people she didn’t know and the kind of wedding that had always made her shudder back home—but what she’s getting…

What she’s getting makes tears blur her vision and her cheeks hurt from smiling so much.

The inside of the city hall is decorated simply, rose vines wrapped around the seats and small bouquets placed on either side of the aisle.

There are still a few people she does not know; a few of Killian’s commanding officers, she supposes; but she hardly even notices them. All she can focus on is that the hall is nearly empty, only filled with her, Archie, Horatio, Liam, Prue, Rose and Killian.

It’s just them.

She locks her eyes with Killian’s, slightly less embarrassed to be crying when she notices he is trying to blink away tears too— _that’s_ her sweet Lieutenant. She _loves_ the way his eyes widen as he takes in what she’s wearing, though she is thoroughly distracted by his attire—God, he looks absolutely _delicious_ in his official uniform.  

Her heart skips a beat, and the only thing she’s aware of anymore is her sweet, _sweet_ soon-to-be husband waiting for her at the end of this far-too-long aisle.

She nearly drags Archie down the aisle in her haste to get to Killian (judging by the quiet chuckles and giggles, everyone notices just how eager she is), happily letting him take her hands in his. “Hey beautiful,” he smiles, and she notices how his voice trembles lightly.

“Hi,” she whispers back, once again overcome by emotions, unable to stop the single tear that ran down her cheek. Killian smiles again, reaching up to wipe away her tear with the pad of his thumb, his own eyes watering too as he lifts both her hands to his lips to press a soft, tender kiss to her knuckles—Emma bites her lip and manages a smile.

She can’t tear her eyes away from Killian’s, completely wrapped up in his burning gaze. She faintly registers Liam starting the ceremony—she tunes out then, her only focus on the man standing before her, the man she’s pledging herself to for the rest of both their lives.

 She doesn’t snap out of the haze until Liam calls out for anyone who might object to their union, though he says the words so harshly, she doesn’t really think anyone would dare to say anything, even if they wanted to.

Still, she holds her breath the entire thirty seconds that Liam pauses, and she can feel Killian’s fingers tense around hers briefly too. She breathes a sigh of relief when no one speaks up, and Liam chuckles at her before he turns to his little brother, smiling as he asks him to repeat his vows after him. Killian only ever looks at her, and it makes her heart melt.

“Will thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife? Wilt thou forsake all other, keep thee only unto her so long as ye both shall live?"

"I will." Killian answers firmly, his eyes locked on hers.

Liam smiles and turns to her, repeating the question—her heart stutters at the look of mixed terror and excitement in Killian’s eyes when she hesitates for a split-second before nodding and choking, “I will,” slightly overcome by emotion.

“To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, and thereto I plight thee my love,” they speak in unison, an unknown sense of warmth and love coursing through Emma’s veins when Killian slips a simple silver wedding band on her finger, where it rests snugly next to her engagement ring.

His hands are shaking, and he sounds slightly choked as he says, “With this ring I thee wed, and with my worldly goods I thee endow.” Liam smiles at the pair of them and announces, “As Captain in His Majesty’s Royal Navy, Captain of The Jewel of The Realm and older brother of the groom, I pronounce that you are husband and wife together."

There’s a tense silence for a moment, and Emma glares at Liam—she knows Killian isn’t allowed to kiss her until Liam says so, and _damn him_ , but he’s making them wait on purpose.

Bloody bastard.

“Alright, Alright,” Liam chuckles when both bride and groom glare at him, “You may kiss your bride, brother.”

It feels like the most natural, most real thing she has ever done, her arms sliding around Killian’s neck as his fingers curl into her hair, their lips colliding softly, but no less passionate then any of their other kisses—but she can feel the difference.

This isn’t merely a kiss, no simple brush of the lips—no, this is a promise for the future; cheesy as it sounds, she’s sure she can feel their souls entwining on a new level.

Jesus.

He makes her go soft.

She loves it.

Killian’s the one to pull away from her, resting his forehead against hers as they listen to their friends cheering and whooping. She hugs him close and presses another soft kiss to his lips, her heart feeling so light, and so filled with love, she was sure could fly away if she tried.

“You’re my husband,” she whispers, staring deeply into his eyes, loving how she can read his every emotion and sentiment.

He smiles and whispers, “Aye. And you are my wife, darling.”

She nods and smiles. Somehow, spending her life with Killian sounds like the best decision she’s ever made.

“I love you, Mrs. Jones,” he whispers to her as he leads her out of city hall. She squeezes her fingers around his, smiling when he helps her into the carriage. “I love you too, Mr. Jones,” she finally responds, resting her head on his shoulder as the carriage starts to move, driving them away from the city slowly, to their honeymoon—which Killian refuses to tell her about.

She’ll get it out of him.

She sighs tiredly and closes her eyes, drawing his arm around her shoulder as she snuggles into him.

She’ll get it out of him _later_.

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.

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**Secret Honeymoon Location Killian Refuses To Tell Emma About  
 _(Several hours later)_**

“Killian!” Emma shrieks, wrapping her arms around his neck so tightly, he can barely breathe. “Put me down, you crazy idiot!” He laughs delightedly, shaking his head, shifting her slightly in his arms. “Ah, but I do not wish for you to trip in the doorway, my love,” he presses a kiss to her cheek, “It is considered very bad luck for our marriage—by carrying you, I take away that risk, and we will have a very prosperous life together.”

He relishes in the sound of her giggles, kicking the door to what will be their home for the coming three weeks open. “You’re still an idiot,” she murmurs in his ear, “But I love you anyway.”

“I suppose that is a good thing,” he grins, maneuvering them both into the house, “You _did_ just wed me.” She giggles, her breath washing over the skin of his neck, raising goose bumps all over his body.  She hums against him, pressing her lips to his neck, whispering, “I did… And now that you mention it… We do have a marriage to consummate.”

Slowly (and far more reluctant than he’s willing to admit) he lowers her, setting her back on her own two feet, though she does not allow him to step away from her—her arms are still wrapped around him tightly; and he is not complaining at all. “Emma,” he breathes, resting his hands on her hips lightly, “though I… I _want_ this… Us, consummating our marriage…” He swallows thickly and finishes, “I don’t want you to believe that I expect it of you. If you do not wish t—” She cuts him off, pressing her lips to his, resting their foreheads together.

He sighs contently, melting into her kiss after a moment of hesitation, treading his fingers through her luscious golden curls, before allowing her to break the kiss to breathe. Emma blushes prettily and breathes in deeply, looking up at him from beneath her lashes.

Gods damn him, that look does things to him.

“I want this too,” she whispers softly, stroking his cheek, “I love you.” He slides his hands down her sides, playing with the lacing on the back of her dress. “Are you certain, love? I do not wish for you to feel pressured.” His heart is beating so hard and loudly, he’s almost certain she can hear it—she tilts her head, brushing her lips over his just a tiny little bit (just enough to drive him insane with desire).

“Of course I am,” she whispers, curling her fingers in the fabric of his vest, “Kiss me again.” He happily obliges and kisses her—his Swan, his darling, his _wife_ —deeply, fully, gently tugging on the lacing at the back of her dress, loosening the ties as much as he can manage with one hand, while burying the other in her curls.

They stumble further into the house, and he’s trying to lead them to where he vaguely remembers the bedchamber is located, but Emma’s tongue is in his mouth and _bloody buggering hell_ …

He can barely remember his own name, much less the lay-out of the house.

“Emma,” he groans against her lips, sighing victoriously when he manages to undo the laces that holds her dress together, pushing it off her shoulders gently, revealing her undergarments.

She looks absolutely breathtaking, and when he tells her so, she curses under her breath and tells him if he likes breathtaking, he should try wearing the bloody corset himself. He slides his fingers over her warm, soft skin, smiling briefly at her cheeky comment before taking her hand in his and leading her to their bedchambers.

Once inside, he carefully closes the door, watching as Emma takes in the room, playing with the laces that tie her corset absent-mindedly. She turns slowly, biting her lower lip gently, “You’re wearing too many clothes, husband,” she whispers huskily, approaching him with an almost hungry look in her eyes, “How about we change that?”

They’re both absolutely still for a  split second, and then his lips are on hers again, and he’s lifting her, carrying her over to the bed where he lets her fall back onto the soft mattress, his hands instantly reaching for the laces of her corset, fumbling slightly, because his fingers are shaking with want and desire and nervousness.

Eventually, he breaks the kiss, leaving the both of them panting and desperate for air, yet still wanting more—his hands are still shaking as he unties her corset, and he’s fumbling around like an incompetent fool, but he does manage, and then the corset slips and she’s bare before him—and _Gods_ , she’s glorious.

“Gods, you are so beautiful,” he breathes. “Killian,” Emma whines softly, tugging on his shirt and snapping him from his haze, “Take of your clothes, mister,” she orders, and he can’t help but chuckle at her bossiness.

“As you wish, milady,” he grins, sitting back and pulling his shirt over his head—he’s lost his jacket somewhere already, though he’s not sure where or when—feeling a slight burst of male pride when she eyes his chest appreciatively. “Killian,” she moves slightly, sitting up just far enough to pull his lips back to hers—and then he’s simply gone.

He’s no longer aware of himself, he just _does_ , moving her back against the bed, relishing in the feel of her body against his—skin to skin, their mouths permanently fused together.  He’s hard, ready, pushing against her thigh, her fingernails digging into his back, and all he can think about is that it’s not enough, and that he needs _more_ of her.

He’ll never be able to get enough of her.

“Please,” she breathes against his lips, “Killian, please.” Neither of them says anything coherent after that—he’s fairly certain he doesn’t even think anything coherently as the remainder of their clothes gets tossed and they melt together in every way possible, and all that registers with him is the faint noises that fall from her lips, the soft cries and moans of pleasure every time he does something right and all he can do to tell her how much he loves her is groan and move faster and there’s nothing but them.

Their hands are clasped together so tightly, his knuckles are whitening and he _can’t_ breathe, he can’t think…

All he’s aware of is Emma.

And then she’s crying out, panting his name in his ear, tightening impossibly around him—and then he’s gone too.

The wave of pleasure that washes over him is so good, so intense, it nearly drowns him as he collapses on top of her, wrapping himself around her to keep himself at least a little bit grounded before he gets completely washed away by pleasure.

Emma’s body relaxes beneath his, her arms wrapping loosely around his back, her fingers trailing up and down his spine gently—it would send shivers down his spine, but he is so spent and sated, he can barely keep his eyes open; he loves how she breathes in soft little puffs, how her muscles still contract and how she’s pressing her lips to his temple.

Gods, he can love this woman forever.

“Oh my God,” she pants, her fingers tangling in his hair, “That was…” She stops and exhales in frustration, and he chuckles a little, moving so he’s leaning on his elbows, staring down at her. “I know,” he whispers, leaning down to press a soft, gentle kiss to her lips,  “me too.”

When he moves to lie down next to her, she whines and tightens her arms and legs around him, so he couldn’t move away, even if he’d wanted to. “Don’t move,” she pleads, “I like you right where you are.” He complies and rests his head on her chest again, soothed by the sound of her heart thudding steadily against her chest, beneath his ear.

“I love you, Emma,” he breathes, his eyes closing despite him trying to stay awake longer, to bask in the afterglow for a little bit longer. He doesn’t register her fingers running through his hair, nor her soft, blissful smile, or her whispered, “I love you too, Killian.”

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.

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**Secret Honeymoon Location Killian Refuses To Tell Emma About  
 _(Two weeks later)_**

They stroll across the crowded market place, their fingers laced together tightly—Emma refuses to let go of him, and it is a comfort to him still. They’ve been in the small town for two weeks now, and though Killian does love the peace and quiet (and the amount of time he and Emma have been able to spend together without interruption), he finds himself missing his brother, Rose and even Prue.

He knows that Emma, too, has been missing Rose—she had grown quite fond of his niece before their wedding.

She has been quiet for a couple of days now, and Killian had decided to take her out into town because of that; he loathes not knowing what is bothering her. They had both been wrapped up in a happy bubble since their wedding; at least he had thought so—but the fact remains that his Emma has been silent and slightly sad and he has no idea what is going on or how to help her.

He is hoping that being out and around other people will brighten her spirits, because he is at a loss of what to do.

She’s staring at the small stall with shiny jewelry and nick-knacks, and he loves the way a small, barely noticeable smile hitches the corner of her lips up—it’s the most honest smile he’s seen of her in two days. “Do you see something you like, darling?” He asks softly, sliding his arm around her waist.

“The necklace,” she whispers, leaning back into his embrace, “with the small rosebud. Do you think Rose would like it?” He smiles and presses a kiss to her cheek, pressing their joined hands onto her stomach. “I think she would love it, my sweet. Would you like to purchase it?” She nods eagerly, and he’s relieved that she’s actually this excited over something so small.

When Emma’s clutching a small package containing the necklace, they continue strolling down the marketplace, and Killian’s more than a little bit relieved that Emma seems to have relaxed a little more. They stop to purchase two sweet rolls, and Killian finally manages to shove aside his slight reluctance and holds her back when she tries to continue their walk.

“Emma, love,” he says slowly, hesitantly, “Is there something…” he breathes in deeply and bites his lip, “Something amiss?”

“What? No, nothing’s… Wrong.” Emma’s eyes widen and she swallows thickly—and he can see the panic in her eyes. “Love, don’t lie to me,” he shakes his head, pulling her closer to him by her hand, “I know something is bothering you, and I wish you would simply tell me what it is.” He strokes her cheek with his free hand, “We are married, darling. We share our troubles. We do this together.”

He winces at the tears that well up in her eyes, but refuses to falter, or to step back. He meant every word he spoke in his wedding vows, and he plans to keep his word. “Remember when I came to town a few days ago, with Marianne?” He nods—she’d been insistent on going with the housekeeper, stating she was going stir-crazy from just sitting in the house and not doing much of anything.

“There…” she hesitates, and he tightens his fingers around hers slightly, “There was this old woman… A gypsy, fortune teller, whatever,” she shakes her head and smiles tightly at him, “I was curious, so I let her read my hand, and she got all…” she shudders, and he swallows thickly—gypsy women are unpredictable and even dangerous at times. “She got all weird,” Emma finishes, shrugging lightly.

“Weird? Odd?” he clarifies, as he is still often baffled by her vocabulary, “How do you mean?”

“She…” Emma looks down, her next words so low and quiet, he can barely hear her.

And what he hears…

He nearly chokes on his words, his fingers gripping her shoulders tightly. “Emma, what did you say?” She blinks up at him with her beautiful green eyes, a single tear rolling down her cheek, and he wishes he could tell whether it is a happy tear or not.

“She said I’m pregnant.” 


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

He’s staring at her, and the knot in her stomach tightens—she knew, she _knew_ it was too soon for them to have a baby, and now he’ll be mad at her because it sucks having a baby this young—it’s gonna ruin their lives—and then suddenly, he’s kissing her and she can’t breathe and…

Shit.

She kisses him back—of course she does—playing with his hair idly, relaxing slightly, despite how nervous she was (and still is, to be honest). When he leans back, she pouts, because as long as he’s kissing her, she knows they’re okay, and she doesn’t want to hear if he’s upset about her being pregnant (though, now that she thinks about it, it’s not like she took a test, and for God’s sake.. Wouldn’t it be way too early to tell? She was a virgin up until two weeks ago—you can’t tell that early, right?)

“You’re with child?” he breathes, and she swears to God… He sounds awed. “If she was right,” she whispers, still slightly unsure about how he’ll respond, “I mean… It’s not like there’s a test or anything. All we have is the word of a gypsy woman.” He chuckles, nudging her nose with his and pressing a soft kiss to her lips before whispering, “That and many a day we spent in bed, my love.”

Her cheeks flush and she flails slightly, but he’s already moving, dropping to his knees before her (in the middle of the fucking street, mind you), pressing soft kisses to her stomach. “Killian,” she hisses, “Get up! What are you doing?”

“Hush, love,” he scolds her, “I’m greeting our child.” Her eyes flood with tears at his words, and she swears, she’s never loved him more than she does right now. She twines her fingers in his hair as he whispers silly nothings to her stomach, trying desperately not to cry; he’s happy—she is too, but she’s also so _scared_.

She doesn’t know how to be a mom.

Killian gets to his feet slowly, cupping her cheeks as he pulls her forward to kiss her again. “We’re having a child,” he whispers against her lips, “We’re having a child.” She breathes in relief at the pure happiness in his voice, nodding along slightly. “We’re not sure yet,” she reminds him, “I mean, it hasn’t been that long… She could be wrong.”

“No,” he shakes his head stubbornly, playing with one of her curls, “She’s right, I’m certain. We’re having a baby.” She chuckles a little, because honestly… He’s more stubborn than she is—they are going to suffer when they do have a child.

Their kid is going to be the most headstrong kid ever.

“Come love,” he suddenly cuts through her thoughts, “We must go back to the house.” She frowns in confusion, not moving though he’s tugging at her hand insistently. “Why are you in such a hurry?” She asks, squeezing his hand tightly. He looks down sheepishly and smiles, “You need to take off the corset. I remember when Prue was expecting Rose, she stopped wearing corsets because it was bad for the baby.”

“Oh,” Emma breathes, her eyes wide and astonished—she hadn’t even thought of that. “Really? It’s bad for the baby?” Her hands fall to her stomach and she feels slightly panicked at the mere thought of their baby being anything less than 100 % perfect.

“Not this early on,” he assures her, wrapping his arms around her, “the child will be fine for some time—but I know you do not enjoy wearing the corsets anyway..” he smiles a little and strokes her cheek, “I thought you might like the opportunity to stop wearing them.” Emma’s smile brightens instantly, and she nods eagerly. “Yes! I would love to stop wearing them! Let’s go!”

He chuckles slightly at her enthusiasm, but allows her to drag him along as she nearly bounces back down the road, towards the their house. She doesn’t let go of his hand until they’re back at the house, and she doesn’t turn around to face him until they’re in the bedroom, when she realizes that him being in the same room when she takes off the corset might not be the best idea if they want to do anything else today.

And besides, if she is pregnant… Can they still have sex?

She blanches a little at the thought of not sleeping with him for nine fucking months—that would be too damn long. She turns around slowly, biting her lip nervously as she looks at him. “Can we still… Can we still have sex?” She chokes a little, her eyebrows furrowing, “It won’t hurt the baby, will it?”

Killian’s nose crinkles, and he shakes his head, sliding his arms around her waist, “Well.. I don’t think so. And if I am to believe my brother,” he shivers a little in disgust, “All you will be able to think about in a few months is sex, darling.” He taps her nose playfully and leans in to press a soft kiss to her lips. “Oh,” she breathes against his lips, “And … How will that be different from right now, exactly?”

She can feel his smile against her lips and she can’t help but smile too—he knows she’s right.

Besides, it’s not her fault her husband is hot.

“You know,” she whispers, her breathing growing slightly more labored when said husband begins trailing kisses down from her lips to the edge of her dress, “I might need some help getting out of that bloody corset.”

He grins wickedly then, glancing up at her—his eyes are dark and it sends a shiver down her spine; that looks predicts so much…

So much pleasure.

Oh, she loves where this is going.

“As you wish, milady,” he smiles, kissing his way back up to her lips, “As you wish.”

.

.

.

**The Jones’ House—Sevenwaters’ Kingdom Capitol**

They have been back for a few days now, and though Emma is now almost certain that she is with child—she claims her monthly bleeds are late, and that she has never been late before—they have not shared their news with anyone yet, and Emma doesn’t want to either.

He does not fully understand why she is insisting on keeping her condition a secret, but, as she’s trying to explain, apparently it is something quite common in her land.

They are currently holed up in their bedchambers, Emma claiming to be tired and unwilling to entertain other people—her words, not his. He is sitting with his back against the headboard, Emma’s back resting against his chest as their entwined fingers rest upon her stomach. “You know, in my world,” she whispers, “We have this thing called ‘ultrasound’… It can show you what the baby looks like and how far along I am and all.” She sighs and leans back against him, “I wish we could do that now. I would love to see our baby grow.”

He’s intrigued by the idea of seeing the baby before he or she has even been born, but he can hardly comprehend the idea. “How is that possible?” He questions in the same soft tone, stroking his fingers over her flat, bare stomach.

She shrugs a little and sighs. “I don’t know exactly. I’ve never been pregnant before. I just know stuff I remember from health classes.” He frowns a little, unsure what she means with health classes, but decides not to question it. “I’m a few weeks along,” she continues, “So… Our baby’s probably the size of a peanut by now.”

He chuckles a little, pressing a kiss to her temple—he remembers her telling him that a peanut was a salty little nut; a snack; that was shaped almost like a bean. “A little bean then,” he chuckles, “Our little bean.”

They’re silent for a while, and he closes his eyes, enjoying the moment—he won’t be able to do this for a few weeks, and much as he loathes to leave Emma now, he cannot turn down an easy assignment like this. The King had specifically asked for him and Liam, assuring him that it was a one-time thing; that the time they spend on the mission will be added to the time they get off—so that Killian will be able to spend far more time with Emma before he needs to take on another assignment.

“I hate that you’re leaving,” she whispers softly, and he doesn’t have to look at her to know that she’s crying.

He tightens his arms around her and presses his lips to her temple again. “I know, my love, I know. But it is but a short mission. Liam assured me that it would take no longer than two to three weeks.”

“That’s still too long,” she whines softly, “We _just_ got married, and we’re having a baby and I don’t know this world and… I just want to spend more time with you.” He smiles a little, but doesn’t respond—she’s right.

He, too, would prefer to spend far more time with his wife before they need to settle in their new, everyday lives. “It will be fine, love,” he finally whispers, “I will be back before you know it, and you will have Prue and Rose to help you settle.”

Emma only grumbles in response, her fingers flexing against his. “How do we do this?” she asks after another moment of comfortable silence, turning in his arms, so that she is straddling him. “How am I supposed to stand on that dock and watch you sail away, knowing all the things that could go wrong—the things that could keep you away from me forever?”

There are tears welling up in her eyes and he hates that she is so upset about this, because he _can’t_ turn down this assignment, not when the King specifically requested him and Liam. “Nothing will keep me from you,” he vows, rubbing his thumb over her cheek gently, erasing any trace of tears, “there is no power strong enough to keep me from you, my love.”

She sighs deeply and leans forward, resting her forehead against his. “You can’t make that promise,” she whispers while pulling herself closer to him, moving deeper into his embrace.

“I know,” he whispers, wincing, because he hates how she’s been hurt in the past, how she’s been left by people she loved and cared about so many times that she’s absolutely terrified to let him out of her sight for fear he might not come back to her. It’s something he understands all too well—though he has not nearly suffered the same kind of losses as she has, he _does_ understand how scared she is.

He is too.

He loathes the mere idea of not having her in his life.

“But I can promise that I will never leave you of my own free will. I can promise that I will fight for you—always, my Swan. I’ll never abandon you or our child,” he adds, running his fingers up and down her spine slowly, soothingly, as she snuggles against him, her breath fanning over his collarbone. He feels her eyelashes flutter against his skin when she closes her eyes, and rests his cheek against her hair, closing his own eyes as she whispers a “okay.”

“I love you, Killian,” she says after a short silence, her fingers trailing over his arm slowly, and his heart skips a beat, because he will never be able to convey to Emma how much he loves her—adores her.

Needs her.

“And I you, my love,” he whispers in return, tightening his embrace on her slightly, “Always.”

.

.

.

**Jewel Of The Realm  
 _(Two Days Later)_**

“All hands on deck!”

He strides across the deck of the Jewel of the Realm, trying his very best to remain as professional as he can manage with his mind still quite preoccupied by his wife and the way she had wished him a good journey, reminding him that he had promised to return to her—to them.

.

.

.

_“Promise me you’ll be safe,” she tugs on his cravat lightly, a little bit harder than necessary, as she pretends to straighten it. “And that you won’t do anything stupid.” He smiles indulgently, and decides not to remind her that this is not his first journey, nor that he is as nervous about their separation as she is._

_“I promise, Emma,” he smiles, wrapping his fingers around her wrists delicately, pulling her closer so he can press a kiss to her forehead. “You have to come back,” she mutters, “You promised you’d be back for me and the little bean.”_

_“And I shall,” he responds, “There’s not a day that goes by that I will not think of you, my love.”_

_“Good,” she smiles shakily, and tears well up in her eyes, “You better come back soon, mister,” she orders in a no-nonsense tone that makes him chuckle slightly. “I’ll miss you too, darling,” he whispers, pressing a short kiss to her lips._

_He yields when she pulls on his hair and kisses him again, allowing them both one more moment before he needs to leave. “I will see you soon,” he breathes against her lips when she breaks the kiss, smiling a little when she merely kisses him again, before sinking into his arms for one last embrace._

.

.

.

Absent-mindedly, he taps one of the sailor’s chests where his vest is not properly buttoned. “Apologies, Lieutenant,” the man grumbles, and for some reason, it bothers him that they do not address him with his name.

“Lieutenant _Jones_ , sailor,” he says slowly, clearly, “The Captain is in transit with orders directly given to him by the King _himself_.” He paces the deck slowly, tensely, trying to take his mind _off_ his wife and their child and onto the mission, so he can complete it quickly and safely, and return home to her in one piece, like he promised her.

“Before he returns,” he continues, shaking himself from his reverie, “this ship will be swapped, specked and—” he stops dead at the sound of clinking glass, closing his eyes in desperation for a brief moment, before he turns to the responsible sailor, fishing a poorly hidden bottle of rum from the man’s pocket, waving it toward the other sailors (and trying to ignore the urge to drain the bottle himself). “Does anyone know what happens to sailors who drink rum?”

The men are all silent, and he continues harshly, trying to work off his own frustrations on them. “They get drunk. And drunkenness leads to bad form—and the one thing that will not be tolerated aboard this ship is _bad form_.” He tosses the bottle, angrier with himself for being tempted to drink from it than he is with the sailor to have brought it.

“My ship has never been in finer hands,” Liam booms as he steps aboard The Jewel, “Excuse our Lieutenant, men, he was pulled from his honeymoon and his wife’s bed unexpectedly—any man would be in a foul mood,” he jokes, and Killian smiles slightly in relief while the men all laugh and tip their hats at Liam as he approaches them.

“Captain,” he nods at his brother, “We stand ready to receive the King’s orders.” Liam nods and bellows, “To your stations,” before he turns to Killian and claps his hand on Killian’s shoulder. “I feel as though I have not seen you since you came home, brother.” Killian grins sheepishly, following Liam to the helm of the ship, shrugging a little.

“I would apologize, brother, but I do not regret spending all of my time with my wife whatsoever.” His smirks is almost devilish, and Liam chuckles in response. “Aye, nor should you be. I do hope you are able to pull your attention from your lovely Emma for the duration of our assignment.”

“I make no promises,” Killian winks playfully, “she is quite lovely.. And—” he glances around briefly, verifying that they cannot be overheard, “I wish to return to her swiftly… I loathe leaving her in her condition.”

Liam whirls around, his eyes wide and startled. “Her condition?” He repeats slowly, “She is with child?”

“Aye,” Killian nods, hushing his brother lightly, “But do not shout it off rooftops—Emma wishes for it to be a secret for a little while longer.” Liam nods, clapping his hand on Killian’s shoulder briefly. “Congratulations, brother. You both will make fine parents.”

Killian’s stomach squeezes a little, and he nods, disguising his nerves as excitement. “I certainly hope so, brother. Now, please, let us set off on our journey—the sooner we leave, the sooner we can return.”

Liam chuckles and nods, opening his satchel and handing Killian a beautiful golden sextant, to commemorate their latest journey together. “So,” Killian asks when he has thanked his brother and examined the sextant, “whereto, brother?”

Liam smiles secretively and pats the top of his satchel. “A land where none before us has set foot, Killian. We are in need of our Pegasus sail too.”

“Pegasus?” Killian demands, “We are travelling across realms?”

“Aye, we are,” Liam nods, “And I’ve need for you, little brother, to set our course.” Killian glances down at the sextant in his hands briefly before looking up at Liam. “And what might our heading be, Captain?”

“It’s quite simple,” Liam chuckles, maneuvering the ship out of the harbor with practiced ease, “Second star to the right, and straight on ‘til morning.” 


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Neverland, as his brother has named the strange realm they have entered, is the most peculiar place he has ever had the (dis)pleasure of visiting. There is magic in the air in a way he has never before experienced.

It is everywhere—soaking into the rays of sunlight that burns on his skin, whispering in the wind that rustles the leaves of the trees overhead, vibrating in the earth beneath his feet—and it unnerves him, despite Liam’s constant assurances that all is well, and that all they need to do is find the plant; Dreamshade.

He still feels grossly uncomfortable about the entire mission—the boy they had met on the beach (Peter Pan, was it?) might just be a child, but he _does_ live here. Would he not know the nature of the plant they seek? And why would he lie about its magical properties?

The questions swirl in his mind, and no matter how hard he tries, he simply cannot shake the feeling that something is absolutely, horribly _wrong_.

They have been on this trek for _hours_ —he is not complaining; if they find this plant today, they will be able to return home within days rather than weeks, and he will be reunited with his Emma far sooner than he had thought. They round a corner, and come upon a broad ledge, his eyes immediately falling upon an entire wall covered by thick, thorny branches with large green leaves, and the sick feeling in his stomach only worsens.

Liam pulls out the parchment to compare the drawing of the plant they were ordered to find to this one, but Killian does not need it—this is what the King wanted them to bring home.

And it does not at all resemble medicine.

When he shares his concerns with his brother, Liam shakes his head and approaches the plant, admonishing him lightly. “You choose to believe that boy over our King?”

“That boy,” Killian sighs, “showed us the path to the Dreamshade—why would he lie about its nature?” though he hopes Liam will listen to reason, will realize, too, that something about this is horribly amiss, he knows that his brother is too stubborn and too loyal to even consider the possibility of their King sending them on a mission with a purpose so vile. “To keep it all for himself,” Liam gestures widely, “Do you actually think our King would send us to retrieve something so dangerous?”

“Well, I hope not,” Killian grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest, “This is not what I signed up for.”

“You signed up to listen to your King,” Liam turns around, glaring at him harshly—but he’s not going to take this laying down. Something is not right about this and Killian will make damn sure Liam knows it too. “Because I thought he was a man of honor,” he replies heatedly, ignoring Liam’s exasperated rebuttal and continues, “If this truly is a poison, it won’t just end the war—it will obliterate an entire race!”

“What do you know of any of this?” Liam glares at him, and though Killian realizes his brother is right, he cannot stand down on this. “I’m your brother and your Captain. You will listen to me. You will _trust_ in me, brother.”

It is those final words that nearly dissuade him.

Nearly.

“No.” He shakes his head. “I’ll fight my enemies, but I’ll fight them fair.”

Killian can nearly see Liam’s exasperated eye roll—and Gods, if he doesn’t remind him of Emma in that moment—as he proclaims, “Then allow me to disabuse you of that notion.” With far too much theatrics for the seriousness of the moment, Liam cuts off a branch of the Dreamshade, raising his eyebrows at Killian.

Something compels Killian to stare at his brother, and he finds himself unable to move a muscle, staring in utter horror as Liam raises his arm and purposefully cuts himself with one of the thorns—and he _cannot_ move. “Brother, don’t!” He exclaims, fighting to move, to get to Liam and slap the bloody branch from his hands.

 Liam merely raises an eyebrow at him, smiling lightly. “You see? I’m perfectly fine.” He tosses the branch and shakes his head. “I told you, our King would never lie to us. Now,” he turns back to the plant, and Killian exhales a little in relief, though the pit in his stomach never lessens, “let’s collect our specimens and get off this—”

Liam gasps and freezes, and Killian frowns, momentarily confused by Liam’s sudden change in demeanor. “Liam?” His heart drops when Liam turns, and he catches a glimpse of the black veins that are spreading across Liam’s skin, originating from the thin cut on his arm—he can barely move forward fast enough to catch Liam when he falls backwards, his eyes rolling back in his head.

“No!” Killian cries, falling to his knees, Liam’s body falling half-across his lap, “No, Liam!”

“I’m sorry, brother,” Liam breathes, before his entire body goes slack, and his eyes flutter closed. Killian stares down at his brother’s face, unable to comprehend what is happening—it can’t be.

It _can’t_.

Liam’s all he has—he can’t think about Prue or Rose or Emma and the baby—Gods, he _needs_ his brother; he needs Liam to scold him when he is foolish, and to give him advice that never really helps when he is at odds with Emma and he _needs_ his big brother.

And Liam needs him.

The thought halts him, and he clenches his fingers on Liam’s jacket as he attempts to get a hold of himself—Liam needs him to be responsible now.

The ship.

He needs to get him back to the ship, and he and the men can plan their next move from there. It is as sound a plan as he can come up with under this kind of duress, and he can only decide to go for it immediately, leaving no time for the poison (for clearly, that is what the plant contains) to spread any further.

He has to get Liam to the ship and find a cure.

“I tried to warn you,” a child’s voice suddenly interrupts his attempt to get his brother up, to get him down from the bloody mountain. His eyes immediately lock upon the boy that they had encountered on the beach earlier today, and his stomach drops when the boy continues, “he’ll die as soon as the poison reaches his heart.”

“But there’s a cure,” Killian pleads, his voice wavering as his eyes prickle with unwanted tears, “There has to be a cure. Please.”

The boy—Pan, Killian remembers—smiles devilishly, shaking his head. “Oh, there is. But this is no ordinary cure, Lieutenant. It will require a sacrifice, a price to be paid. It will be a price that might be too much—something you are unwilling to give up.”

Killian knows, rationally, that he should heed the boy’s words.

After everything that has already transpired on this bloody damned island, he should know better—but all that he can think of is that he _needs_ to save Liam, whatever the cost may be.

“Anything,” he proclaims, stumbling to his feet, “I’ll give you anything you desire, but please, help him.”

Pan chuckles, but inclines his head and moves forward, towards the Dreamshade, rambling about his lucky day and Neverland and magic springs, but he honestly cannot care—he watches in wonder as the Dreamshade’s vines untangle and withdraw, revealing a sparkling water source, and he realizes that that water is the only thing that will save his brother; and that is all he cares about.

“Thank you,” he utters sincerely, nodding at the boy, already uncapping his water skin to fill it with this supposedly healing water.

“Remember,” Pan cackles as he fills the water skin as quickly as he can, “There’s always a price. Don’t leave the island unless you are willing to pay it.”

Killian nods, only half-listening as he stumbles back to where his brother lays on the cold, hard ground, his condition deteriorating visibly. “Come on, brother,” he pleads, “Drink. Wake up.” He drops the empty water skin and shakes Liam, desperation lacing his voice when Liam doesn’t respond.

“Liam!” He cries, shaking his brother’s shoulders, “Liam, come on, you selfish, stubborn bastard, wake up!” Liam’s breath stutters and falters, and Killian’s heart stops—one beat, two beats—and then Liam chokes, coughing and rolling over, Killian hovering over him concernedly. “Liam? Are you okay?”

“Aye,” Liam coughs, “And that’s still Captain to you,” he adds, and Killian can’t stop the near-hysterical laughter that bubbles over his lips, because he’s okay.

Liam’s okay.

His brother is okay.

All will be well now.

.

.

.

Something is wrong.

He cannot positively identify what it is that feels wrong, but there is something missing—there’s an itch in the back of his mind, insisting that there is something infinitely important that he should be remembering, but he _can’t_ , however much he tries.

Liam, too, has expressed the odd feeling of forgetfulness, but they both assume Liam’s amnesia is due to the large amount of poison that has yet to leave his system. It had started the moment the ship landed back onto safe seas in their own realm.

They had been trying to decide what to do about the King’s betrayal when it had hit; it had been subtle, nearly undetectable, and he would not have known had he not been mid-thought when he suddenly could not remember what he had been thinking about. Liam too, expressed the same confusion, but when neither of them could recall what their thoughts had entailed, they returned to the subject they remembered discussing; the King, and the quest they had been sent on.

Liam, ever the reasonable voice, pointed out that perhaps, not even the King had known of Dreamshade’s true nature. They were speaking of something originating from another realm, after all.

Realm-crossing information was often unreliable, and it was entirely possible that the King, too, would be baffled by what Dreamshade truly was.

“Perhaps we should simply take this matter to the Admiralty,” Liam reasoned, “They can assess the true threat, and without my ship, none can cross to the other realm; magic beans _are_ hard to come by, after all.”

Killian scoffs and leans back against the wall, shaking his head. “We found one for Emma easily enough.” As soon as the words fall from his lips, he stiffens, and Liam stares at him, and he is quite certain he feels as baffled as his brother looks.

“Wh—wha—who is Emma, brother?” Liam questions slowly, almost as uncertainly—and he understands the feeling all too well.

It’s like he _should_ know the answer; but he can’t quite recall.

“I—” he stutters, “I...don’t know.” He shakes his head, stalking over to the window, sighing deeply, “I don’t know where that came from.” The uncomfortable, twisting feeling in his gut is overwhelming and unsettling, and he just. Can’t. Shake. It.

He hears Liam move behind him, and sighs when his brother squeezes his shoulder briefly. “Worry not, brother,” Liam says slowly, “We will get to the bottom of this—and we will all be alright; we go home to our wives and children.” Killian frowns at that, turning to his brother with a frown. “Brother, I have no clue what you speak of—you know I am not wedded, nor betrothed.”

“Yes,” Liam frowns, “I do. I do not know why I said that.” Killian opens his mouth to share his suspicions; perhaps Neverland’s magic has somehow altered their memories, their minds; when he spots land—the docks.

The city.

And all then he is thinking about is that he will be able to see his adorable little niece again—and all thoughts of confusion and amnesia flee from his mind. “Come, brother,” Liam smiles, “We must make port—we have many a thing to do as soon as we set foot on land.” Killian merely nods and follows his brother, feeling somewhat dazed as he goes through the motions, the process of docking the ship—and it is not until they are already docked, and he and the men are discussing their leave, that he realizes there are soldiers waiting for them.

A lot of soldiers.

He turns to point it out to Liam—but he has already taken notice, and is proceeding down the gangway, nodding towards the commanding officer. “What can I help you with, gentlemen?” Liam inquires pleasantly, though Killian recognizes his brother’s distant, Captain-stance.

“Captain Liam Jones?” The man inquires, glancing to his right, where a small boy is holding what looks to be a royal decree, his expression grim when Liam nods in affirmation, “You are hereby stripped from your titles and duties to His Majesty’s Royal Navy, and you are to be tried on charges of high treason.”

Killian moves before he even realizes he does, watching in horror as his brother is surrounded by soldiers and clapped in irons—but strong hands hold him back, and however much he struggles, he cannot break free. “Liam!” He is full-fledged panicking now, struggling as hard as he can, but the men’s grip never loosens—he does realize it must be the crew holding him back—, “Liam!”

The last image he sees before someone clocks him over the head and the world turns dark is his brother being led away by soldiers, and a tearful, sad, but determined-looking Prue watching from a short distance.

And then there is nothing.

.

.

.

**Portland, Oregon, USA, 2001**

Emma breathes in deeply, wincing at the painful throbbing in her head. She remembers dreaming—a wonderful, fairytale-like dream that she never wants to wake up from, even though she cannot remember anything specific.

Slowly though, she becomes more and more aware of the world around her, and she realizes (much to her displeasure and even fear) that she has absolutely no clue where she is, or how she got there. She builds up her courage, taking a few more deep breaths before she opens her eyes slowly (the pounding in her head gets worse, and she winces) more than a little surprised to find herself cramped in the backseat of some tiny little car.

“Oh shit,” she breathes when the implications of her predicament hit her (and really, the only thing that makes sense to her is that some psycho kidnapped her), until she realizes the car isn’t moving, and that the person in the front seat is a young man—not much older than her, and that she definitely has the element of surprise if she just jumps out and runs away now.

Yes.

That’s what she’ll do.

She’ll open the door and run away as fast as she can.

 _Okay Swan,_ she ignores the way her heart squeezes slightly when she calls herself that, _on three._

_One. Two. Three._

She swallows thickly and curls her fingers around the handle, yanking it down and pushing the door open, rolling out of the backseat clumsily, but fast enough to get to her feet and start running (read: stumbling) down the alley they had been parked in, ignoring the pervert’s yells behind her—she just needs to get away.

“Wait!” Pervert yells after, “Please, wait—look, you’re hurt!”

Her head is swimming, and she realizes he is right; she _is_ hurt—but as he is probably the one to have hurt her in the first place, she is not particularly inclined to stop and chat. She continues running as fast as she can, but she can still hear him following her, and her vision’s starting to blur and her legs feel like lead, and she knows she can’t keep running for much longer.

She trips suddenly, her knees giving out, and she curses, tears pricking in her eyes as she continues moving, crawling on her hands and knees, desperately trying to get away from the man in the car. She shrieks when she feels his hands on her shoulders, yelling and crying, hoping, _wishing_ that someone would hear her and come help her.

“No, no, no, no,” Pervert says soothingly, “you’re okay, I’m not gonna hurt you—I promise. Look,” he moves his hands off of her, and she scoots back against the brick wall, as far away from him as she can get, “Look,” he repeats, “I found you, passed out back there,” he points over his shoulder to the alley, “So I moved you to my car. I was gonna take you to the hospital, but then you woke up.”

She relaxes slightly—he’s telling the truth, and he is still staying a few feet away from her.

“Now,” he smiles gently, “Can I have a look at your head? I think you hit it on the wall or something, you’re bleeding a little.” She raises her hand (ignoring how badly it’s shaking) and gingerly touches the back of her head, her fingers covered in sticky red fluid when she pulls them back. “Okay,” she whispers, her voice soft and terrified—she still doesn’t know how she ended up here in this alley; and that terrifies her.

He moves towards her slowly, pulling a hanky from his pocket and gently pushing it against the wound on her head. She breathes in harshly and winces at the sudden, sharp pain as he does so, biting her lip so she won’t cry.

She can’t cry.

“So,” he smiles at her, “should I drive you to the hospital?” She shakes her head slowly, her hand balling into a tight fist, “No, no, I don’t want to go to hospital.”

“Okay, okay,” he says softly, “You don’t have to. Can I ask your name, miss?” She glances down at her hand, frowning a little as she takes in the two, beautiful, familiar, yet completely unknown rings on her finger, “Emma,” she whispers, “Emma Swan.”

He smiles at her, and she notices, rather off-handedly, that he is really cute when he smiles. “Well, nice to meet you, Emma. I’m Neal.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

**Memphis Motel, Albany, New York  
 _(One month, two weeks and four days later)_**

Emma stretches languorously, enjoying the wonders of sleeping in a real, soft bed.  It’s a luxury she hasn’t been afforded all that many times in the past month and a half, since Neal had found her in the small alley. She still can’t remember why or how she came to be in that alley—the last thing she vaguely remembers before waking up in Neal’s backseat was going home, to the orphanage, after another horrid day in school.

She’s assuming she finally ran away after graduating (seeing as it’s July now, and she can only remember early June—and losing an entire month is still absolutely terrifying), and that she’s been working as a waitress or a cashier or something, seeing as she did have some money on her.

She giggles when a warm arm curls around her waist and hauls her back across the bed, into the warm, hard body laying behind her. “It’s too early,” he whines, “Go back to sleep.” She rolls over, her fingers trailing over his features gently. “We’ll have to leave soon anyway,” she reminds him softly, “We’ve been here for two days, we’re lucky they haven’t caught us yet.”

He grumbles a little and opens his eyes, blinking at her with his beautiful chocolaty orbs, and her heart squeezes a little. “Come on, Neal,” she whines, “I’m bored. We can drive up to New York today—do some _shopping_.” She smiles pointedly, and Neal sighs, catching on to what she means immediately.

“Ems, we need to lay low, babe,” he taps her nose, “They almost caught us in Minnesota.” Emma sighs and pouts, fiddling with the long, silver necklace they nicked back in Minnesota (and that nearly got them arrested) and the two rings she slipped onto the necklace. “I know,” she whines, “but we need to do something. We’re getting low on funds; and I really don’t fancy getting a waitressing job again.”

Neal smiles sadly and nods, his fingers curling over the curve of her bare hip, “We’ll figure something out. It’s gonna be fine. Now,” he smirks, and she blushes a little, knowing exactly where he’s going, “How’re you feeling? Are you sore at all?”

She bites her lip coyly and shakes her head; that had baffled her a little; while she isn’t really in love with Neal (she doesn’t know how to classify her feelings for him, she just knows it’s not all the way to love), she did finally give into him last night, and slept with him for the first time—she hadn’t quite pictured her first time in a shabby, run-down motel room on dirty, stained sheets, but she does realize that she was lucky with a lover like Neal.

Besides. It beats the backseat of the Bug.

She’d heard a lot of horror stories about losing one’s virginity when she was younger, and one of her older foster sisters had once described it as ‘almost being ripped in half before it even felt remotely okay’, so she’d been _very_ nervous to let him anywhere near her at first; but it hadn’t hurt at all.

Even now, she barely feels any pain at all, aside from her strained thigh muscles.

“No, I feel good,” she smiles shyly, “I feel really good.” She isn’t lying—not really. She does feel good; but there’s this little niggle of doubt in the back of her head (and it’s been there for the past month and a half) that keeps telling her she’s making a mistake, and that she should be looking for something— _someone_.

She ignores it, because honestly—who is she supposed to be looking for?

All she has is Neal, and that’ll do for now. She wants a home; a place where she can have the kind of life she never had when she was a child. She even dreams now—silly dreams that don’t make a lot of sense, but that make her smile nonetheless.

Dreams of being so in love it consumes her, of waiting impatiently for her husband to come home, of a beautiful wedding—she knows she probably won’t get most of those things (especially not if she stays with Neal, that’s for sure), but it feels good to feel like she’s a normal, seventeen-year-old girl who dreams of a fairytale-like love and life.

Neal leans in to kiss her (completely oblivious that she’s not paying attention to him anymore), rolling on top of her as he does, and she kisses him back distractedly, wondering if she’ll ever fall in love with Neal like that—she’s barely known him a month now, and though she really does have a bit of a crush on him, she really does think it would be quite ridiculous to think she’d love him already.

Neal pulls away, frowning down at her, stroking his fingers through her curls. “You okay, Ems?” She sighs, pushing at him gently, feeling relieved more than anything when he rolls off of her again. “I’m just worried,” she sighs, “I hate living like this.” She sits up, pulling the sheet up to her chin, and shakes her head. “The whole Bonny and Clyde thing… It’s not going to end well, and I just…” She runs her fingers through her hair again and toys with the rings on her necklace.

“Well,” Neal sits up too, rubbing his hand over her back soothingly, “Maybe we could…” he hesitates, “Maybe we could sell some stuff… Get an apartment, get jobs.. Start a life.” Her jaw sags, and she stares at him, unsure whether or not he’s serious.

He’d start a life with her?

“Really?” She swallows thickly, unable to explain why she feels the sudden urge to just run away (screaming too, if she could get away with it), “You’d want that?”

“Yeah,” he nods, “I mean.. We could sell your rings—the thing looks like a real diamond, we could get good money for it too.” She jerks away from him immediately, curling her fingers around the rings protectively, glaring at Neal angrily, “What the hell? No! I’m not selling them!”

“We could use the money, Emma,” he tries to reason—but she doesn’t care. She _can’t_ get rid of her rings; she can’t even fathom the idea of not having them anymore.

“No,” she shakes her head, “No, I can’t even believe you’d bring that up. No. It’s not going to happen.” She jumps off the bed and grabs the first item of clothing she finds—Neal’s shirt—running her fingers through her hair.

She can’t explain why she’s so angry about this, but she _is_ , and she can’t even look at Neal right now.

“Okay,” Neal sighs behind her, and she can hear him get up, approach her, but she refuses to turn around to look at him. She’s angry and confused and scared and she just needs more time to process _everything._

He wants to start a life with her, and she doesn’t even know if she wants to stay with him longer than a few more weeks.

“Emma,” he says softly, grabbing her arm softly, turning her to face him slowly, “Baby, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” She sighs, her resistance fading a little, and she looks up at him slowly. “Yeah,” she murmurs, “me too. I didn’t mean to overreact.” He nods, smiling softly, his thumb stroking her cheek gently.

"You're so beautiful, Emma," he whispers, and she feels heat rise to her cheeks, looking down briefly, trying to ignore how his words make her feel flattered and terrified at the same time. "You're not so bad yourself," she whispers cheekily, trying to sound airy and unaffected.

He grins at her, shaking his head, tapping her nose playfully, "Don't make this about me. You're beautiful." He smiles at her fondly, her heart stuttering at the look in his eyes.

His fingers wave in her hair as he leans in slowly. "I love you, Emma," he whispers against her lips, his lips are on hers before she can respond, before she can register the words he just said—and she's not sure how to respond, or what she's supposed to do.

He loves her.

Her heart squeezes almost painfully, and she gasps—which Neal seems to take as an invitation to deepen the kiss. And maybe it is, she thinks, kissing him back eagerly, languidly. Maybe he knows she doesn't know how to say the words back without breaking her own heart; maybe he just knows her.

It's a terrifying notion, but she can't help it—it's the only thing that makes sense. He barely even gave her the time to take a breath before he kissed her. If he'd expected her to say it back, he would've waited, right?

Her fingers clench in his hair, and she's sure it has to hurt a little, but she's just …

He loves her.

How can he love her?

"Neal," she breathes, her heart thudding loudly in her chest—so loudly, she's surprised he doesn't hear it. She doesn't know what she's supposed to say, and that scares her more than she cares to admit. "I—" she breathes, shaking her head lightly, her fingers tightening on his shirt, "I don't... I mean, I—"

Neal swallows thickly, resting his forehead against hers, "You don't have to say it back, babe. I just... I just needed to tell you." She nods shakily, tilting her head to press one more kiss to his lips. "I'm sorry," she breathes against his lips, "I just... we barely know each other.”

“Well,” he smiles sheepishly, “I do anyway. And I mean it. We could do it, you know. Make ourselves a home.” There’s a soft, tiny little voice in the back of her head, telling her that, maybe, just maybe, staying with Neal isn’t such a bad idea.

Maybe they _could_ find themselves a home.

Together.

She’s not in love with him; she just isn’t.

But maybe she could be—he already loves her; it’d be a safe choice.

“Is this really what you want?” She whispers, “Because I’m not selling my rings, I can’t—and we don’t have anything else, so—” He cuts her off, shaking his head. “I—I may have stolen a case of watches a while ago.. I never fenced them, but I could now—I still have them. It’s worth twenty grand, _easy_.” Her eyes widen, and she swallows thickly.

“Really?” she breathes, “We’re doing this?”

His smile is bright and slightly awed, and he nods eagerly. “Yeah. Wherever you want. We can go anywhere. Start over.”

“Start over,” she repeats slowly, nervously, “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds awesome.”

.

.

.

**Portland Juvenile Correctional Center, 2001  
 _(one month later)_**

She’s stupid.

She is _so_ stupid.

How could she have fallen for it?

She stares up at the dull, concrete grey ceiling,            internally furious at herself, going over every little detail of the past three months, again questioning how on earth she could have been so insanely, horrifyingly _stupid_.

She shouldn’t have trusted him.

He was a thief.

Of course he didn’t love her. He’d barely known her.

But she’d fallen for it anyway—she’d trusted him, fallen into his arms, into his bed _far_ too easily—she’d been so desperate for some form of affection, she had refused to see all the signs that something might be off.

He’d insisted she get the watches, in case they were still looking for him, insisted on fencing them by himself, _giving_ her one of the watches.

How could she not have seen it?

There had been no home; no starting over—all that had been waiting for her was a cop, insisting she was the one who stole the watches; after all, she _was_ wearing one of them. She’d been tried and convicted as an adult, seeing as her eighteenth birthday was only a few months away, and sentenced to twelve months in a female correctional institution.

She has nothing.

Well…

She closes her eyes briefly, desperately pushing back the tears that are burning in her eyes, and reflexively reaches for her necklace… But it’s not there.

All of her possessions have been taken the moment she walked through the door, and though the kind woman at the desk has promised her she would make sure the necklace would be placed in a safe place until she got out, it leaves her feeling naked, empty.

She glances down at the small, white, almost inconsequential stick in her lap, her breath shuddering and shaking, unable to fully realize what this means.

_‘+’._

_‘Positive’._

_‘Pregnant’._

She really wishes she could refute it. That she could just shrug it off and say it’s not true, that it doesn’t exist—but it does.

She’s already been escorted to the prison hospital ward, where the doctor confirmed that she’s pregnant.

She just…

She can’t even wrap her head around the _idea_.

She can’t reconcile herself with the idea that there’s a tiny little person growing inside of her, half hers, half Neal’s.

She cringes at how stupid she was; she’d only slept with him once (unprotected too, as if that on itself hadn’t been stupid enough); and now…

Now she’s in jail, doing time for something she didn’t do, pregnant to a boot.

She can’t raise a baby—she won’t. She won’t even be done serving her time yet by the time the baby’s born.

Her eyes flicker down to the purple pamphlet the doctor had given her.

_‘Adoption. A family solution.’_

.

.

.

**Portland, Maine, Starbucks, 2006  
 _(roughly five years later)_**

Emma Swan is absolutely exhausted.

She’s spent the entire night up, chasing her mark, who’d been elusive, but not elusive enough—she’d finally caught him and turned him over to the authorities an hour ago, and she is in _desperate_ need of coffee before she crashes the Bug into a lamppost.

Or before she falls asleep and drives herself off a pier or something.

Yeah… She’d prefer it if that doesn’t happen.

“What can I get you, Miss?” A perky, bottle-blonde, teenage girl asks her, her brown eyes wide and expectant as she stares at Emma, patiently waiting for an answer (Emma nearly wants to take a picture; this is the only Starbucks she’s ever been to that isn’t at all busy or crowded or filled with impatient pushy customers). “A white chocolate mocha to go, please,” she orders. “With cinnamon on top,” she adds as an afterthought, running her fingers through her hair tiredly.

She only needs to wait for a few minutes to get her coffee, and she swears to God—she loves this place already—she’ll definitely look into moving here if she moves again. She sips her coffee and scrolls through the messages on her phone absent-mindedly as she walks out the door, taking a deep, grateful breath of fresh air—

And then she collides with someone, sending everything she’s holding flying, her coffee spilling onto the sidewalk. She winces when her back connects with the hard, cold, unforgiving stone ground, groaning slightly in agony as someone else’s body lands on top of hers.

She opens her eyes to meet the bluest pair of eyes she’s ever seen—it takes her breath away for a moment, before she realizes their position, and groans slightly. “Ow,” she breathes, ignoring the way her body seems intent on melting into his. Their legs are tangled together, his chest pressing heavily on hers and his face unnervingly close to hers.

God, he’s handsome too.

Fuck. Her. Life.

“God, I’m so sorry,” Tall-Dark-And-Handsome exclaims, scrambling to his feet and offering her a hand—she eyes him suspiciously for a long moment before taking it—and pulling her back to her feet. “Are you alright, lass?” He asks, concern lacing through every syllable he speaks, and she wants to curse her own luck, because.. God damn it.

Irish?

He just had to be Irish.

She sighs and bends down, picking up her phone and purse, dusting off her jacket and eyeing her spilled coffee with a small pout. “I’m fine,” she finally replies when she realizes he’s still staring at her, his eyes wide and so goddamned _blue_. “I’ll live,” she adds, sending him a smile that she doesn’t really mean, because he made her spill her coffee.

She. Will. Not. Pout.

Her breathing hitches in her throat when he takes a single step closer to her and strokes a lock of hair from her forehead, and _fuck_.

Who the hell does he think he is?

“I am too sorry, lass,” he says softly, his proximity and voice and everything making her shiver lightly. “Please,” he smiles charmingly (devilishly might actually work better for him, she contemplates silently), “Allow me to reimburse you.” She frowns, slightly confused by his words, but he smirks—yeah, definitely devilishly—and nods towards the spilled cup of coffee on the sidewalk, “Your coffee, darling,” he clarifies, “Least I can do is get you a new one.”

She briefly considers turning him down—he’s one of the dangerous ones; a handsome man who _knows_ he’s handsome and charming; she’s stayed away from those for a long time, for very good reason—but she _really_ wants more coffee.

So when he opens the door for her and lets her walk in first, she just rolls  her eyes (it might’ve been gentleman-like if he hadn’t been smirking) and shakes her head, walking straight up to the counter again, where the girl just swoons when Mr. Tall-Dark-And-Handsome tells her to get whatever she wants. She checks him out when he walks away to pay for the drinks (she’s just human and he’s _very_ attractive; she’s been celibate for a while, but that doesn’t mean she’s blind) and chuckles to herself. ‘ _It’s just coffee_ ,’ she tells herself firmly _, ‘What’s the worst that can happen_?’

It’s not until she wakes up the next morning to find a heavy arm wrapped around her waist and a warm, strong chest pressed against her bare back that she realizes she’s in trouble.

He pulls her back against his chest a little more, his lips brushing her shoulder.

She nearly moans.

Yup. She’s in deep, _deep_ trouble. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

**Portland, Maine, The Salty Dog’s Bar & Inn, 2006  
( _Four days later_ )**

“How about that one?” She trails her fingers over the faint scar on his cheek, smirking at the face he makes. He catches her hand and smirks at her, shaking his head. “I was seven, and my brother and I were chasing…” he shrugs, trailing his fingers over her heated, naked skin, “I don’t quite recall what, but we were chasing something. I tripped, landed myself on barbed wire.”

She chuckles at the mental image that provides, shaking her head—she has no idea why she’s still here, with him, in bed, after four days (she’s lying—the sex alone would have been earth-shattering enough for her to come begging for more), but she does like it.

She likes the feeling of normalcy that surrounds them, and she knows that, deep down, he does too.

She likes that she knows so much about him already; she knows his name is Colin Brody, that he and his brother moved to a small coast town here in Maine when he was in high school, and that he was desperate to get as far away from said town as he possibly could after his brother and his brother’s girlfriend died in a car accident.

A car accident that cost him his entire family and his left hand.

She knows he’s been stuck here in Portland for five years, and that he wants nothing more than to travel through the entire country, but simply can’t afford it. She knows that the biting sarcasm, the flirting and the witty remarks are his armor as much as they are for her; and she knows that he knows as much about her too.

Most importantly, she knows it scares the hell out of her.

 _He_ scares the hell out of her.

“My turn, love,” he drawls, snapping her from her thoughts, trailing his fingers down from her throat, between her breasts, over her belly button, before coming to rest on the faint scar that spans across her stomach—her heart skips a beat and she winces, because _of course_ he would ask about that one. He couldn’t ask about the one she got when she fell from a tree when she was six, or the one on her elbow, where she burned herself against the stove.

No.

Of course he couldn’t.

He wanted to ask about the one that hurt her most of all.

“It’s from a caesarian,” she whispers, looking down to avoid his blue eyes, knowing he’ll see right through her. His silence is deafening, and when he does finally speak, his voice is soft, and almost unbearably concerned. “You had a child?”

She nods, still not looking at him, and whispers, “I gave him up for adoption. I couldn’t take care of him, and I didn’t want—” She swallows thickly and shakes her head. “Never mind. I don’t even know why I told you.”

His fingers are warm and rough against her skin, and though she probably could have resisted if she really wanted to, she allows him to push her chin up, so he can meet her eyes. “Because we have something, darling.”

She snorts, pulling her armor right back into place, because he is getting a little too close for comfort, and glares at him. “Yeah,” she spits, “It’s called a one nightstand.” His eyes darken, and she’s not sure if she actually got to him or not, but his voice is gruff and heavy when he replies, just as heatedly, “This stopped being a one nightstand four days ago, Swan.”

She raises an eyebrow at him, determined not to let him get to her, and smirks, “I’m sorry, what is it then? Being fuckbuddies?” To his credit, he does not even cringe when she continues to insult him, merely waiting for her to finish. Only when she’s sitting up, the sheets pooling around her waist, breathing heavily, does he move to sit up too, regarding her calmly. “Are you quite done now, darling?”

She glares at him, but nods nonetheless and bites the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing at the adorable frown that wrinkles his forehead.

Damn him.

How dare he make her smile when she’s trying to be mad at him?

“I don’t know what we are, Emma,” she swallows thickly when he uses her actual name—it sounds odd, because the only time he calls her Emma is when they’re having sex, and it is _very_ distracting, to say the least, to hear him say it now—, “but it is there. I have not so much as looked at a woman in a long time, love, but you… I cannot get enough of you.”

She chokes a little, because he’s starting to sound like Neal—even worse, at least Neal knew her a little longer than four days before professing his love to her—and it scares the hell out of her. “And this,” she gestures between them roughly, “has nothing to do with you wanting to leave Maine as fast as you can, does it?”

The look on his face makes her wince slightly, but she can’t help it.

Stuff like this doesn’t happen to her.

Men don’t fall all over themselves to get into her good graces and her bed. Colin’s the only one in five years that’s been trying to stay for longer than one night, and call her a pessimist, but she can’t help but feel like there’s more to it than a so-called connection they feel.

“Try something new, darling,” he finally says, his eyes dark and clouded with hurt, “It’s called trust.” She bites her lip harshly and, without thinking, spits, “I did. Trust landed me in jail—I’m not stupid enough to fall for it twice.”

The surprise on his face makes her want to slap herself— _Way to go, Emma, another well-kept secret out the window_ —and she turns away, refusing to see the pity in his eyes; she knows it’ll be there.

It always is.

“Fine,” he says softly, “Then leave me here. I will find my own way to ... Boston, was it? And I will find you there—and then, you won’t have to question whether I am with you to escape or not; I will have done so on my own.” She closes her eyes briefly, desperately trying to find a way to hide from him, to stop him from seeing right through the walls that kept her safe all this time, trying to keep herself from falling for it.

She can’t risk letting him in.

“Who said I’d give you a shot even if you came to Boston on your own?” Her voice sounds cold and harsh even to her own ears, and she feels him tense slightly, before he slides his arm around her waist again, tugging her to him before she can protest, his lips hot and wet against her neck.

“Well, I’ll just have to persuade you otherwise,” he chuckles, pushing her down on the bed and capturing her lips in a searing kiss that has her legs just fall open for him—she has to admit; she could definitely get used to his methods of persuasion.

.

.

.

“Where do you think you’re going, love?”

She freezes, halfway between the bed and the door, closing her eyes— _of course_ he would wake up when she’s trying to sneak out.

She pulls his button down shirt closed a little more—fastening the only two buttons that were still left hadn’t really helped to cover her up—and turns back to look at him, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes at the way he’s lounging across the bed, the sheets riding low on his hips…

She licks her lips slightly at the _delicious_ sight he makes, before scolding herself and shaking the unwanted feeling off.  “To the bathroom,” she finally replies, raising her eyebrows at him, “You got a problem with that, Irish?” His devilish smirk grows larger, and as much as she’d like to claim she isn’t affected by him anymore now that she’s had him (several times)… 

She knows neither of them would believe it anyway.

“Not if you join me again after,” he chuckles, wiggling his eyebrows at her, and she can’t stop a laugh from falling from her lips—he’s absolutely ridiculous; and the worst part is that she actually finds herself liking it too.

“Now why would I do that?” She crosses her arms over her chest, leaning against the doorpost casually, smirking at the currently _very_ naked man in her motel bed.

“Oh, love,” he chuckles, “I’ll make it worth your while.” She doesn’t doubt that whatsoever—if anything, he’s definitely made it worth skipping out on nearly a week of work, but she has to get back to real life (and away from him for a little while), so she tells herself to man up and sighs. “No can do, Irish. I gotta get back to real life.”

His eyes darken, and she bites her lip, because she doesn’t like this anymore than he does—reality means leaving, going back to Boston, leaving him here, and something deep inside of her protests against that notion.

She doesn’t want to let go of the normalcy, the company.

“Come with me,” she blurts, ignoring the small voice that screams at her in her head, “To Boston,” she adds when he just stares at her, “I mean… Not like we’d be together but—” she chokes and continues, “We have something. You were right, we do, and I… I don’t want to be with anyone, but I—” she looks up at him slowly, “I could use a friend. And I,” she shrugs shakily, watching him move, getting up from the bed, “I have a spare bedroom. So, if you want—”

He cuts her off with a soft kiss, and she melts into his arms despite her resolve not to give into him again. “You would want me there, love?” he breathes against her lips, the tender, vulnerable note in his voice making her shiver.

“Just as a friend,” she whispers in reply, “you have to pay rent and everything.” He chuckles and nods, pressing several soft, quick kisses all over her face, and it tickles like crazy, making her smile and giggle like a little girl. “Hmm,” she mumbles against his lips, “Killian,” she shivers when she feels the hard evidence of just how much he appreciates the gesture pressing against her stomach, “just friends,” she moans, though her arms rise to wrap around his neck of their own accord, pulling him closer despite her own protests.

“One last time, love,” he pleads, grinding against her. “Just one more time.”

She tries to remember why this isn’t a good idea, but she can’t—so she just gives in, letting him sweep her up and carry her off into the bathroom.

Just one last time.

.

.

.

**Boston, Massachusetts, Emma & Colin’s Apartment, 2009  
 _(Three years later)_**

“Ugh, Colin,” Emma whines as she kicks the door closed, stumbling into the dark apartment, her arms loaded with heavy grocery bags, “I told you,” she says loudly, glaring in disgust at the clothes spread all over the apartment, “I don’t mind you bringing any of your slutty little friends here, but for God’s sake, kick them out before I get home, will you?”

“I didn’t bloody bring anyone here, Swan,” Colin’s rough I-have-a-hangover-please-don’t-yell-at-me voice emerges from his dark bedroom, “I’ve told you that before. I just made a mess when I got home, love. I’ll clean it up later.”

She rolls her eyes at that, shaking her head as she starts putting the groceries away—Colin still tends to go overboard sometimes, drinking himself into a stupor, leaving him unable to do anything but moan for two days after.

It’s not like she doesn’t get it—she really does—but she still maintains that him being a bartender and therefore having access to free booze is a bad idea. His alcohol tolerance is high, but she’s still worried that one day, she’ll get a call from the hospital, telling her he’s been admitted for alcohol poisoning.

He only drinks when there is something that sets him off—something that brings back painful memories or feelings he doesn’t want to deal with—but when he does drink, he drinks more than she drinks in an entire month.

“Okay,” she sighs, running her fingers through her hair when she finishes putting everything away, kicking her shoes off before making her way into Colin’s room, “What was it this time?”

He’s lying face down on his bed, on top of the sheets, only wearing his boxers and socks, and she can’t help the chuckle that falls from her lips at the sight of him. “Sure,” he grumbles into his pillow, “laugh at my misery.”

She smiles softly, moving to sit on the bed with him, stroking his messy hair softly. “Are you okay, Colin?” She hasn’t seen him like this in nearly a year, and it worries her slightly, because she’d believed he was getting better. He moves a little, resting his head on her thigh while she continues stroking his hair.

“Aye, love,” he murmurs quietly, “I’ll be fine now.” He nuzzles his nose against her leg and she smiles as his scruff—he hasn’t shaved in a few days—tickles her skin through her tights. She sighs and shifts, so she can sit comfortably against the headboard, Colin’s head fully resting on her lap now. “Are you going to tell me about it?” She asks softly, leaning her head back against the wooden headboard.

“It matters no more, darling,” he grumbles, his fingers playing idly with the hem of her skirt—her lie detector immediately goes off, and she does not need to look at him to know that he is lying.

It matters to him.

“Colin,” she admonishes him softly, “You know you can tell me. I won’t judge.”

And she won’t. They’ve been roommates for three years now, and awkward as it was in the first few weeks, it’s almost as natural as breathing by now.

They work well together, and she had been right; he _is_ a really good friend.

She had not been right though, when she had said they would be no more than friends. They weren’t, exactly, more than that, but she did not sleep with anyone but him—she didn’t see the point of going after random strangers who could have God knows what disease when she had a perfectly good and very much willing man at home.

She knows he’s not nearly as exclusive with her as she is with him, but they’re not in a relationship—by her own choice too—so she doesn’t comment on it.

“Swan, please,” he moans softly, “Leave it. You do not want to hear this—not yet, love.” She frowns and tugs on his hair a little harder than necessary (ignoring his loud moan of protest), to get him to look at her.  He sits up slowly, his hair an absolute mess, his lower lip protruding a pout. “Damn woman,” he exclaims, “was that necessary?”

“Yes,” she replies heatedly, “You’re not telling me something, and I’m worried, okay?” Her expression softens, and she raises her hand to stroke his cheek, “I’m worried about _you_. You haven’t drunk this much in… Forever. What happened?”

His Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows thickly, and she’s suddenly a little apprehensive, unsure of what to expect—obviously, it’s something important to him.

“I—” he sighs and shakes his head, “I saw you… On a date, last night.” He looks down, his cheeks flushing, “I … I may have responded slightly irrationally to seeing you with another man, love.” Her eyes widen in surprise, and something very akin to butterflies flutters in her stomach at the intense look in his eyes.

“I—” she shakes her head, “Colin, don’t—” He shakes his head, moving to cup his cheek with his good hand, “Emma,” he whispers—and damn him, what happened to the pet names?—, “I love you, Swan. I didn’t want to say, for fear you did not reciprocate my feelings, but Emma… I needed to say it. I cannot risk losing you to another man simply because I was a coward.”

She stiffens, fear coiling deep in the pit of her stomach.

He didn’t.

No, he can’t have—

“No, Colin, you’re hung-over,” she shakes her head desperately, her thundering in her chest, “You’re being crazy—you don’t love me—you can’t, you …” She’s rambling,  and she's probably not making any sense, but she hates that he actually _said_ it, because she can’t pretend now.

She can’t pretend he never said anything.

She can’t pretend she doesn’t know why they have those tiny, sweet moments that everyone else would regard as loving gestures—she hates that she’s so terrified that she’s making him feel like she doesn't care about him, that she doesn't feel something for him too—but she _does_.

She really does, but she is too scared to say it, and she just _can’t_ get over the near-paralyzing fear that if she tells him, if she really would say those three little words, he'd have the power break her, because she _does_ , she does love him, and that gives him something Neal never had, and she just...

She's not ready to trust him that fully just yet.

 _A man in love doesn’t sleep with other women_ , she rationalizes _, trying to convince herself, if he really was in love with me, he wouldn’t be sleeping around._

She tells him so, and winces at the pure and unadulterated hurt that fills his beautiful blue eyes, flinching when he pulls away from her, “Do you honestly not know me at all, Swan? I have not touched nor looked at another woman since I met you.”

“I can’t be with you like that,” she says shakily, but determined.

This is for the best.

She can’t be with anyone—he’ll get tired of her—he’ll leave her—he’ll break her.

She can’t take the risk that she’s wrong about him.

“Oh love,” he shakes his head with an exasperated smile, “We are already together, Emma. We have just not said it yet—I have been with none but you, and I know you have not been with another either. Emma, we have been in a relationship for three years already; the only difference would be that we acknowledge it.”

She opens her mouth to refute that, to fight back, to say _something_ , but he’s right, and they both know it too. “Emma,” he approaches her slowly, his wide and sincere and too goddamn _blue,_ “Emma, love, please. Just… Give me a change. Give _us_ a chance. Please.”

His hand is on her cheek, he’s unnervingly close and he’s so _sincere_.

She needs to say no.

She has to.

She looks up at him through teary eyes, her lower lip trembling softly. “Okay,” she breathes, her heart skipping a beat at his brilliant, radiant smile, “Okay.”

.

.

.

**Boston, Massachusetts, Emma & Colin’s Apartment, 2011  
 _(Two years later)_**

“You were absolutely brilliant, love,” Colin slips his arm around her waist, “and you look positively delicious.” He punctuates the words with a swift kiss on her cheek. She smiles and leans into him, whining playfully, “My feet hurt. I wanna get home so I can take these damn heels off.” She looks down at her dress and sighs, “Bastard spilled red wine on my dress.”

Colin chuckles and presses a kiss to her temple. “You made him pay, darling. Bloody hot to see you beat him up too.” She rolls her eyes and elbows him lightly as they make their way up the stairs, grinning at his painful grunt and muttered curse.

“You’re lucky it’s your birthday, Swan,” he grumbles under his breath, holding their apartment door open for her (she loves that tiny little gentleman streak of his), taking the grocery bag from her hands once they’re inside, so she can kick off her heels, for which she is _inherently_ grateful.

She hears him scuffle around in the kitchen, and chuckles when she hears him curse several times, before everything goes quiet.

Too quiet.

“Colin?” She calls from the hall, “What are you up to?”

Her stomach sinks a little when he doesn’t respond, and she walks to the kitchen suspiciously, gasping a little at the sight—there’s several little tea lights strewn across the countertops, and a single cupcake with a pink star candle on top is sitting in the middle of the table, her boyfriend standing right next to it with a nervous smile.

“Happy birthday, love,” he says as she walks towards him slowly, still trying to take in that he actually wants to celebrate with her—it’s late and they’re both tired, and … She smiles when he lifts the cupcake and winks at her. “Make a wish, darling—” He smirks and adds, “And dirty little wishes are absolutely allowed, birthday girl.”

She laughs a little, shaking her head and rolling her eyes at him before taking a deep breath and closing her eyes as she tries to think of something.

A wish.

Something she wants more than anything.

She has Colin—she loves him (yes, she _is_ able to say it to him now, but only when she’s sure no one else can hear them) and he loves her, and he’s her family.

She smiles sadly and thinks about the tiny little baby boy she gave up.

Thinks of her parents, wondering where they are, who they could be.

That’s what she wants; she wants to know where the rest of her family is—where her son is, her parents, maybe even more family.

She wants a real family.

Still smiling, she makes her wish and blows out the candle, before plucking the cupcake from Colin’s fingers and putting it back on the table as she wraps her arms around him, pressing a kiss to his lips. “I love you,” she breathes, shivering when his fingers brush over the bare skin on the back of her neck and shoulders, “So much.”

He merely smiles and waves his fingers in her hair, pulling her lips back to his. Slowly, she breaks the kiss and presses her forehead against Colin’s as they stand locked in their intimate embrace. His hands have drifted down to her hips while hers have found their way into his hair.

“Emma?” He whispers, opening his eyes to look at her.  “Hmm?” Her brain has melted—it does that sometimes, when he kisses her.

She also isn’t sure if she’s able to communicate in English anymore.

Colin smirks and presses a kiss to her nose. “Emma, love… Marry me?”  

At that her eyes do indeed snap open, filled with startling amounts of love, confusion, and hope.

Holy crap.

Did he just… _Propose_?

What?

“I love you, my darling, my Emma,” he whispers, “So, so much. You… You made me want to live and love again. Marry me—pledge yourself to me for the rest of our lives, and I’ll do the same. Be mine.”

“But,” she chokes, “But you—we only—I mean—What?” she breathes, her mind unable to process the words Colin has just uttered. He laughs and presses another short, soft kiss to her lips—effectively destroying every thought she has been able to form—and whispers, “Marry me,” again.

She pulls back to look at him, stunned into silence. He’s done what no one else has ever been able to do before him—he has rendered her completely speechless.

“You want to marry me?” She whispers in disbelief, still unable to wrap her head around the thought of being Colin’s wife.

He nods presses her lips to his softly. “I do,” he mutters against her lips, “I want to be with you. I want to be yours as much as you are mine. Marry me.”

She can’t suppress the delighted smile that fights its way onto her lips, and she nods slowly, whispering, “Okay, I’ll marry you. I’ll be yours.”

She actually squeals (but she’ll deny it if anyone asks) as she jumps him, her lips crashing on his, her hands diving into his hair and her legs wrapping around his waist as she kisses him wildly, giving herself enough hope to think that maybe, someday, she’ll be able to fully believe him when he says he loves her.

One day, she’ll be able to give herself to him completely, without holding back, without being afraid he’d break her.

“Wait,” she drags her lips away from his, pouting a little when he sets her down on the kitchen island, “Don’t I get a ring?” He smiles sheepishly and strokes his fingers past her collarbone, tugging on the silver chain of her necklace. “I thought you might want to use this one,” he fingers the silver, diamond ring, “But I could not swipe it from you without you noticing.”

“Oh,” she breathes, looking down at the ring with a bemused smile, “Yeah. I actually would really like to wear that ring.”  He smiles brightly and leans in to kiss her again, when they’re interrupted by a soft knock on the door.

Emma frowns at Colin and pouts, “Did you expect company?” He shakes his head, running his fingers through his already messy hair (she blames her own roaming fingers for that one) and frowns towards the front door. “No, not at all,” he finally says, helping her down from the counter (and being more than a little reluctant to help her pull her dress back down so she looks at least a little decent).

She sighs and heads to the front door, raising an eyebrow at the ten, maybe eleven-year-old boy standing on her doorstep. “Can I help you?” She asks, leaning against the door a little as Colin walks up behind her.

“Uh,” the boy looks at Colin uncertainly, “Yeah… Are you Emma Swan?” Colin smiles and presses a kiss to her cheek. “Not for long,” he singsongs in her ear, earning himself another elbow in the ribs and an eye roll. “Yeah,” she nods, turning back to the kid, “And you are?”

He smiles brilliantly, his sea green eyes sparkling, “I’m Henry. I’m your son.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

Before they can respond to that bombshell—Colin is staring openmouthed, and she’s not quite sure how to respond either—the kid, Henry, ducks under her arm and walks into the apartment like he owns the place. “Do you have any juice?” he asks, ignoring the two adults who stare after him, both completely baffled by the situation.

Emma opens her mouth to say _something_ , but closes it again immediately, one look at Colin telling her that he, too, is at a loss of words. They both stare wordlessly as Henry rummages in the fridge and pulls a bottle of OJ out, hopping onto the barstool and drinking for a long moment before he turns back to them, his eyes narrowing at Colin. “So… Are you my dad?”

Emma finally snaps out of her stupor and shakes her head, her heart clenching as she protests, “Look, kid, I don’t have a son. Where are your parents?” Colin’s good hand is resting on the small of her back, and she can’t even begin to tell him how good it feels—she needs his support.

He knows about the baby, the adoption, Neal…

But to expect him to actually handle it, like this? She half-expected him to withdraw his proposal and run away screaming when the kid announced who he was.

Henry smiles and shakes his head at her. “Ten years ago, did you give up a baby for adoption?” She just stares at him, unable to process _anything_ that happened in the past twenty minutes, from her boyfriend proposing to the kid showing up on her doorstep. Henry—that was his name, right?—takes her silence as an admission and shrugs, “That was me. So, are you?” He looks at Colin again, “My dad?”

She doesn’t even listen to whatever Colin says in response—she needs… She needs to be alone.

Jesus, she really needs a moment.

“Give me a minute,” she mumbles, stumbling into the bathroom before either of them can protest, locking the door behind her.  She leans heavily against the sink, staring ahead blankly, firmly telling herself to stay calm and to _breathe_.

The kid’s ten, so obviously, there’s a family somewhere—she nods, she’ll just… Ask him where his parents are and tell him to go back to them. She can’t handle the onslaught of emotions that stirred up at her the moment she laid eyes on him—she can’t handle more emotional vulnerability.

Letting Colin in is still hard for her, and though she loves him (she really does), she still believes, somewhere, deep down, that he’ll just leave her in the end.

She can’t deal with Henry too—he’ll be a constant reminder of the biggest mistake she ever made, and she knows he deserves a better mother than one who can only remember how much it hurt when she found out she was having him.

She jumps a little when a soft knock on the door interrupts her thoughts, staring at the door with wide eyes as Colin’s voice drifts through the wood. “Emma? Darling, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” she calls back, pushing away from the counter and turning to look in the mirror, her hands shaking when she runs them through her hair. “I just need a minute.” He’s quiet for a moment, and she almost believes he’s left her to it when his voice rings out again, a little more stubborn this time. “Open the door, love,” he nearly orders, “Let me in.”

She pouts and shakes her head at her mirror image, before realizing that he can’t see her, and that she probably should respond out loud too. “No,” she sighs, “Colin, I’m fine.”

“Swan,” her fiancé (she realizes that it’s the first time she’s actually thought of him like that, and she really _loves_ the sound of it) growls, “Open the door or I’ll kick it in.” She will continue to be stubborn—or she _would_ , if she hadn’t been so sure he was absolutely serious too.

“Fine,” she grumbles, flipping the lock and opening the door, avoiding looking him in the eye as much as she can manage in the cramped space. She’s not sure what she’ll find in his eyes if she does look, and she’s not willing to risk it being something bad; something that could damage their relationship. “Emma, look at me,” he says softly, and though reluctant, she complies anyway, the feeling of dread and fear in the pit of her stomach growing slightly.

His blue eyes are soft and filled with concern and love and shock (she can’t hold that against him, she’s still in shock too), and his fingers are warm and soft on her cheek. “It’s alright, love,” he says slowly, “we just have to step back in there and talk to the lad.”

“What is he doing here?” She chokes lightly, curling her fingers in the soft fabric of his shirt, “How on earth did he get here in the first place? How did he find me?”

“That, my love,” he strokes his fingers through her hair soothingly, “Is something we need to ask the lad.” She sighs and nods against his chest, closing her eyes briefly as she breathes in his scent, relishing in how safe his arms make her feel.

Yeah.

He’s right.

She can do this.

She pulls away from him reluctantly, tiptoeing to press a quick to his lips. “I love you,” she says softly, “You know that, right?” He chuckles against her lips and nods, “I should hope so, love, you _did_ just consent to marry me.” She smiles at the reminder, before taking a deep breath before turning to the door. “Okay,” she sighs, “Let’s go.”

“You know,” Henry— _kid,­_ she reminds herself, _the kid_. _You can’t get attached_ —starts as soon as they walk out of the bathroom, “we should probably get going.”

“Going where?” She says slowly, raising her eyebrows at him and crossing her arms over her chest. “I want you to come home with me,” the kid chirps happily, completely disregarding their shocked expressions. “Okay, kid,” Emma shakes her head exasperatedly—this is too fucking far—she doesn’t need any of this—heading for the phone. “I’m calling the cops.”

“I’ll tell them you kidnapped me,” Henry responds smoothly— _too_ smoothly, she notes with a frown. “And they’ll believe you because she’s your birthmother,” Colin deadpans, leaning back against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed across his chest and his brows furrowed.

“You’re not gonna do that,” Emma studies the boy in front of her, looking for any trace of herself or Neal, looking for something she might recognize—recognizing the lie a mile away. Henry raises an eyebrow—and God, she swears he reminds her of Colin, even though she knows that’s not possible—and smirks, “Try me.”

“You’re pretty good,” she smiles, shaking her head, “Here’s the thing… There’s not a lot I’m great at in life—” she ignores her fiancé’s loud cough and pointed glare, “—but I have one skill. Let’s call it a superpower—I can tell when _anyone_ is lying to me, and you kid, _are_.” She clicks the phone back on, having dialed ‘9’ before the kid speaks up, shaking his head.

“Wait—” he uses what she presumes are his best puppy eyes on her—and she has to admit, they’re pretty damn good—, “Please don’t call the cops. I want you to come home with me, please.”

She exchanges a glance with Colin, still unsure what to make of this, and then sighs. “Where’s home?”

“Storybrooke, Maine.”

She sees Colin freeze from the corner of her eye, and winces at the look of dread on his face—she can’t blame him; she knows what living in that town did to him; and she curses her own luck—how is it possible that the kid lives in _that_ little town?

Why on earth that town?

“Really?” she groans softly, “Storybrooke?”

Henry looks from one to the other curiously, obviously confused by their response. “Yeah,” he nods slowly. She runs her fingers through her hair and sighs, “Colin, you don’t have to come with me—you don’t have to go back.”

Colin shakes his head before she’s even finished, stalking over to stand by her side. “Don’t be ridiculous, love, I would not let you go alone. Of course I am coming with you.” She opens her mouth to protest, but Henry interrupts them, his voice high and slightly incredulous. “Wait,” he’s staring at Colin openmouthed, his eyes wide, “You’re from Storybrooke?”

“Aye, lad,” Colin responds stiffly, his fingers curling into a fist against the small of her back, “I am. I left a long time ago.” Emma smiles softly, taking his fake hand in both of hers to offer him some sense of comfort.

“But that’s not possible!” Henry exclaims, blushing when both adults stare at him incredulously. “I mean,” he stutters, “There’s never—you’re—” he swallows and shakes his head. “Never mind. Can we go now?” He hops off his chair, heading for the door immediately.

Emma shares a confused, resigned look with Colin and sighs. “Okay,” she mumbles, “To Storybrooke.”

.

.

.

The ride had been long and slow and slightly uncomfortable, and Emma is _very_ relieved when they finally reach Storybrooke—the kid had been talking about fairytales and True Love the entire time, and told her she was supposed to fix every problem in his life and she’s just…

She sighs and shakes her head.

She’s just really tired.

She glances over to Colin, who’s leaning his head against the window, every muscle in his body taunt and tense, and she feels a little bad that he’s forced to return to the town he’s been running from since before he met her, so she reaches across the gear shift and takes his good hand, squeezing it tightly and offering him a soft smile.

“Okay kid,” she says slowly, “How about an address?”

“44 NotTellingYou street,” he says with a broad smile that just makes her patience run out completely—she stomps on the break, stopping in the middle of the road, and jumps out of the car, slamming the door behind her, growling in frustration. “Look, kid,” she sighs when she’s managed to calm herself down a little, “It’s been a long night, a really long drive, we’re all tired, and it’s almost—” She frowns a little as she looks up at the clock tower (she would’ve sworn it’s later), “—eight fifteen?”

Colin gets out of the car too, walking around stiffly to stand by her side. “Come now, lad,” he smiles—Emma can tell he’s just trying to placate the kid, because it’s the fakest, most strained smile she’s ever seen on him—, “I’m sure your parents are worried about you too.”

Henry studiously ignores him and turns to Emma, his eyes wide and—goddamnit—sincere. “The clock hasn’t moved all my life. Time is frozen here.” Emma stares at him, not sure what to make of it, when he continues, “The Evil Queen did it, with her curse. She sent everyone from the Enchanted Forest here.”

“Okay,” Emma drawls, leaning against Colin a little (she’s tired, he’s warm and comfy—sue her), “The Evil Queen sent a bunch of fairytale characters here?” She can hear the skepticism in her own voice, and she knows Colin can too, but the kid seems completely oblivious. “Yeah,” he nods eagerly, “And now they’re trapped.”

“Frozen in time, stuck in Storybrooke, Maine…” She turns to Colin with a light smiles and kisses his cheek. “I see why you wanted to leave this town behind as soon as you could.”

“But it’s true,” Henry whines, glaring at them, “And I don’t know how he left. People don’t leave here, or bad things happen.” Colin bites his lip and shakes his head, “I hate to break it to you, lad, but bad things happened long before I left Storybrooke.”

Henry opens his mouth again—she’s not sure she wants to hear what the kid is going to say next—when someone behind them calls out to Henry. A scrawny, though very friendly looking man crosses the street, his dog (a Dalmatian, really?) trailing behind him. She notes how Colin stiffens a little again, but doesn’t respond to it, instead choosing to watch the interaction between the kid and the man.

“What are you doing here?” The man asks, and Emma can hear the concern and relief radiating from his voice, and wonders who the man is—he certainly seems to know Henry well enough. “Is everything alright?”

“I’m fine, Archie,” Henry smiles, bending down to pet the dog. Archie nods a little, his expression relieved. His eyes travel to Emma, and from her to Colin, and his jaw drops a little. “Colin? Colin Brody, is that you?”

Colin shifts uncomfortably, but nods and holds his good hand out, keeping his arm around Emma’s waist. “Aye. Good to see you, Archie.”

“I’ll say,” Archie smiles a small bemused smile as he shakes Colin’s hand, “It’s been forever.” He takes in how close he and Emma are standing, and Emma bites her lip, feeling slightly uncomfortable under Archie’s scrutiny. “And who’s this?”

Colin smiles a little, and Emma’s glad to see him relax. “This is Emma,” he says, squeezing his arm around her a little tighter, “My fiancée.” She smiles politely at the man, shaking his hand too. “We were just giving the kid a ride home,” she shrugs, before stepping back, leaning against Colin’s chest.

Henry pouts at her and adds, “She’s my mom, Archie.”

Archie’s eyes widen considerably, and all at once, Emma’s skin crawls and she just wants to get this over with. “You know where he lives?” she asks curtly, crossing her arms over her chest. “Yeah, sure,” Archie nods, his eyes still curious and slightly shocked, “It’s, ah, right up Mifflin street. The Mayor’s house is the biggest on the block.”

“The Mayor?” She raises an eyebrow at the kid, and Colin curses slightly under his breath. “You’re Regina’s son?” He questions sharply, and Emma wonder briefly about that, but then shakes it off—not the time.

“Maybe,” Henry drawls, pouting a little. Emma sighs tiredly and rubs her hand over her forehead, “Okay, kid, get in the car, we gotta get you home. Thanks—” she hesitates, frowning a little when she realizes all she knows about the man is that his first name is Archie.

“Archie Hopper,” the man smiles sweetly, “And you’re very welcome. Have a good night—and uh,” he smiles at Henry, “You be good, Henry. I’ll see you Thursday, on your next session.” The man turns and continues down the road, the Dalmatian wagging its tail happily as he follows him.

 “So,” Emma drawls as they all pile back into the car, “That’s your shrink?” She glances into the rear view mirror to look at his response.

Henry grumbles. “I’m not crazy.”

Colin chuckles and turns in his seat to look at the kid. “We never said you were, lad. He doesn’t seem _cursed_ , though.” Colin shrugs a little and smiles, “He never did. He does look like he’s just trying to help you.”

“Well, he’s the one that needs help. He doesn’t remember. None of them do.” Henry replies stubbornly. Emma chuckles and shakes his head. “Convenient. Alright, I'll play. Who's he supposed to be?"

"Jiminy Cricket."

"Right, the lying thing,” Emma grins, “Thought your nose grew a little bit.”

"I'm not Pinocchio!" Henry squeals indignantly, wrinkling his nose as though the mere thought is revolting.

"Of course you're not,” Emma rolls her eyes  a little. “Because that would be ridiculous."

“So, lad,” Colin smiles at her before turning back to Henry, “per your definition, I should be a fairytale character too… Who would I be, lad?”

Henry narrows his eyes at him, pursing his lips in contemplation. “I’m not sure yet. Give me some time to think about it—I’ll let you know.” Emma smirks at the semi-disappointed look on her fiancé’s face as she pulls over in front of the house. “Okay, kid. We’re here. Home sweet home.”

“Please,” Henry pleads, leaning forward between the two front seats, “Don’t take me back here—can’t I stay with you guys, at the inn or something?”

“Lad,” Colin says soothingly, “I’m sure your mother is worried sick about you.” Emma nods in agreement, though it does cause a small, uncomfortable knot in her stomach—something she’s not all that eager to explore.

“No, she’s not,” Henry shakes his head, “she’s evil.”

Emma looks over her shoulder and frowns. “Evil? That’s a tad bit extreme, isn’t it?” Henry shakes his head stubbornly. “She is,” he insists, “She doesn’t love me—she only pretends to.” Emma sighs and shakes her head, getting out of the car slowly (she’s stiff from sitting in the car for so long), wincing a little as she stretches her sore muscles.

“Henry!”  A woman sprints down the driveway, her heels clicking loudly against the pavement. She wraps Henry in a tight (and reluctant on Henry’s part) hug, before putting both of her hands on his shoulders. “Are you okay? Where were you? What happened?”

“I found my real mom,” Henry says harshly, before pushing past her and into the house. Emma sighs and runs her fingers through her hair tiredly. “Nice to meet you, Mayor,” she says with an exasperated smile.

"Y—you're Henry's birth mother?" The woman sounds stunned—terrified even—for a long moment before she manages to pull herself together again.

“I’ll go check on the lad… Make sure he’s alright.” Emma jumps a little when the man behind the Mayor speaks up suddenly. He has the same, thick, Irish lilt to his voice as Killian does, though his seems a little more pronounced—he’s also the Sherriff.

And sleeping with her son’s mother, if the way they look at each other is any indication.

She nearly laughs—the Sherriff and the Mayor; it’s _so_ small town America.

“I’m sorry,” the Mayor states, plastering a smile on her face that even Emma can tell is fake, “Please, forgive me for my lack of manners, I was very worried about _my_ son. Regina Mills,” she offers Emma her hand, “How would like to come in for a glass of the best apple cider you've ever tasted?"

Emma scratches the back of her neck awkwardly and smiles politely, glancing over to the car, where Colin is still sitting on the hood. “Thanks, but I think we both just really want to go to the inn and get some sleep for the night—we do need to go back to Boston before Monday.”

“We?” Regina’s eyebrows raise, and Emma smiles tightly—she has no doubt Regina would know exactly who Colin is, and she’s not sure Colin wants everyone to know he came back. “Yeah,” she nods slowly, “me and my… Fiancé.” Regina nods, her smile a little strained, and says, “Well, I’m sure Granny will be more than happy to rent you two a room for the night.”

Emma nods and sighs, “Well, goodnight then.”

She turns her back to Regina, trying to shake the odd, uneasy feeling the woman gives her and walks right into Colin arms, resting her head against his chest. “God, I’m so tired,” she mumbles, feeling his chest rumbles against her cheek as he chuckles quietly.

“Let’s go to the inn then, love,” he says softly, rubbing her back, “It’s not far—right up Main Street.” She nods against his chest and mumbles, “Can you drive?” She’s not sure if she can drive without crashing the car into the nearest lamppost.

He chuckles and helps her get into the passenger seat before running around the car and getting in himself. He glances over his shoulder and smiles, shaking his head lightly. “The lad is clever, love,” he chuckles, “he left his book in the backseat—we need to stick around to give it back to him.” Emma smiles tiredly and nods, her eyes fluttering a little.

She’s just _so_ tired.

Colin drives them to the inn in under three minutes and opens her door for her—her heart flutters a little at the sweet gesture—and escorts her in, smiling winningly at the old woman behind the counter, who squeals and fusses over them as soon as she realizes who he is.

“So, how long would you like to stay?” She smiles, “And do you want a forest view or a view on the square? Normally, there's an upgrade fee for the square but, as friends do, I'll wave it,” The woman smiles broadly at Colin, and Emma smirks a little at the blush on his cheeks—he really is adorable sometimes.

“Square’s fine,” Colin smiles, “We just need a bed, Granny—it’s been a long drive.” Granny nods and scribbles something down, “Shall I put it in your name, Colin, dear?”

“Aye,” Colin nods as Emma leans against him, her arms sliding around his waist as she rests his head on his shoulder, “Colin and Emma Brody.”

“Emma,” an accented voice behind them startles them, waking Emma up a little more again, “What a lovely name.” Emma bites her lip uncomfortably and smiles tersely, very much aware of her tense fiancé—he’d frozen as soon as the well-dressed man with the cane entered the inn. “Thanks,” she says slowly.

Granny frowns at the man and hands him a roll of bills. “It’s all there.”

“Yes, yes,” the man smiles, and it makes every hair on Emma’s body stand on end, “Of course it is, dearie. Thank you. You enjoy your stay, _Emma_.” His eyes land on Colin, and she squeezes his hand tightly. “ _Lovely_ to see you again, Mr. Brody. Welcome back.”

At that, he turns on his heel and limps out of the inn, leaving the three people in the inn in an uncomfortable silence.

"Who's that?" Emma asks slowly, blinking tiredly still.

"Mr. Gold. He owns this place,” Granny responds tensely.

"The inn?" She questions, her eyebrows raising a little.

"No,” Colin cuts in, shaking his head, “the entire town.” Granny shakes her head and looks back at Colin. “How long will you be staying, Colin?” He looks at Emma for reference, but she shrugs, deciding that she’s too tired to think (or stand on her own—she’s back in Colin’s arms, half-asleep already). “Just for the weekend, Granny,” Colin smiles politely.

"Great," The old woman takes a key from the wall and hands it to him.

"Welcome to Storybrooke."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

Emma isn’t sure what wakes her up—Colin is still asleep, his arm slung around her waist, and his face relaxed and peaceful. She smiles softly and presses a quick kiss to his cheek before wriggling out of his embrace to look out the window.

Something feels different.

She’s just not sure what.

She looks back at the bed longingly—she is still tired, and she wishes she could just crawl back in and sleep for another week, but she knows it wouldn’t do her any good. If she’s in that bed with Colin when he wakes up, she’s pretty sure he won’t let her leave it at all.

She smirks a little as she heads into the bathroom; he _is_ a man, and he didn’t get to give her the ‘Happy Birthday’ he usually gives her.

She pouts at herself in the mirror (her hair is a mess) and reaches for the comb, commencing the battle to untangle her curls when there’s a loud knock on the door. She frowns a little (she’s not really sure who would come knocking at their door at this time of the morning) and puts down the comb again, hurrying to open the door before the knocking wakes up her fiancé.

Her eyes widen in surprise when she realizes it’s Regina, holding a huge basket of… Apples?

 _What the_ —she shakes her head and opens the door a little further. “Uh,” she stutters, “Hi?”

Regina smiles (and it’s the most insincere smile she’s ever seen) and rambles, “Did you know that the honey crisp tree is the most hardy of all apple trees? It can survive temperatures as low as forty below and keep growing. It can whether any storm.” Regina’s smile turns darker… More sinister, and though Emma knows Henry’s Evil Queen theory is ridiculous, she _can_ see why he picked Regina for the part.

“I have one that I’ve tended to since I was a little girl,” Regina’s gaze drops to the apples (they do look good, and Emma’s stomach grumbles to remind her that she hasn’t had any food since lunch yesterday) and her expression turns fond, almost innocent, before she looks back up at Emma, and her eyes harden again. “And to this day, I have yet to taste anything more delicious than the fruits it bears.”

She offers Emma one of the dark red apples, her smile hard and cold. Emma simply shakes her head and takes it, honestly reconsidering crawling back in bed with Colin—somehow, spending the rest of the day in there doesn’t sound so bad anymore.

“Thanks,” she smiles awkwardly, wondering if it would be considered rude if she simply kicked her son’s adopted mother out. Regina hands her the entire basket and continues, “I’m sure you will enjoy them on your way back home.”

“Uh, actually,” Emma fidgets, “We—”

“We’re staying for a little while,” Colin cuts in smoothly (Emma jumps and then turns to smack him on hisarm for startling her), openly glaring at Regina. “We both have a week off from work, we just got engaged, and I wanted to show my love where I grew up,” Emma doesn’t miss the way Regina’s eyes widen slightly at Colin’s words, “I see no problem there, do you, Madam Mayor?”

Regina clearly struggles to findwords for a moment before she turns to Emma, disgust dripping from her every wordas she spits, “ _This_ is who you spend time with? I knew there was a good reason I didn’t want you around _my_ son.”

“ _Excuse_ _me_?” Emma bristles, taking a step closer to Regina, “Who I spend time with is none of your concern, _miss_ _Mills_ ,” she spits, “Thank you for the apples, have a nice day.” Without another word, she slams the door shut in Regina’s face, turning around to look at her very much amused fiancé, who has a questioning eyebrow raised at her.

“You know, love,” he slides his arms around her when she sets the huge basket down, “I think you must be the first person to ever slam a door in her face.”

“Well, she deserves it,” Emma grumbles, resting her forehead against his shoulder, “She ruined my good mood.” Colin sighs and plants a kiss to the top of her head, stroking his fingers through her tangled curls soothingly. “Aye, she does that,” he mutters softly, “Don’t let her get to you, darling—she is not worth our time.”

She slides her arms around his waist, nodding against his chest. “I know,” she whines, “She just rubs me the wrong way. I mean,” she leans back a little, “Who the hell does she think she is, coming here and insulting my fiancé and then trying to tell me I’m the one who’s screwing up somehow?” Her voice is growing louder with every word, and by the end she’s nearly yelling—she really can’t help it.

Her son’s adoptive mother _infuriates_ her.

“Why are you _smiling_?” She yells exasperatedly, slapping Colin’s arm (he can’t seriously be laughing at her when she’s freaking out). She wants to be mad at him, she really does, but the way he’s smiling is adorable and _damn him,_ she loves him too much to bebad mad when he’s finally smiling again.

His smile softens as he strokes a curl from her forehead (he gives her chills when he looks at her like that), his expression a little pensive, almost sad. “I no longer care what she says about me, love—please don’t let her get under your skin.” He pecks her nose and smiles, “We should be celebrating. We just got engaged—your son has returned to our lives—” She giggles when he presses another quick kiss to her nose, “—we can start a family, love.”

Her heart skips a beat at that, and her cheeks heat at the mere thought. “You mean—you’d—I mean…” She bites her lip and looks down at her engagement ring briefly, before looking up into his beautiful blue eyes again. “You want a family with me? Like… Tiny little mini-you’s and mini-me’s?”

The thought is both terrifying and thrilling at the same time, and she has absolutely no idea how she’s supposed to respond.

“Of course I would,” he smiles, “A tiny little Emma—a little princess for me to spoil along with her mother… Sounds perfect.” She smiles weakly, her heart skipping a beat and squeezing painfully in fear at the same time, and tiptoes so she can kiss him (it’s the only response she can give him right now, and she knows he’ll understand—he always does), wrapping her arms around him tightly.

“Alright, love,” he chuckles, breaking away from the kiss when she starts tugging him back towards the bed, “As much as I would love to spend the entire day in that bed with you, we are only going to be in town for the weekend… Perhaps you should try spending some time with the lad while we are here.” She pouts, but nods—he is right; they’ll be back in Boston by Monday.

“Speaking of,” she frowns, “What did you say to him?”

Colin frowns too, tilting his head to the side in confusion. “About what, love?”

She sighs and shifts a little, wriggling out of his embrace and plopping down on the bed tiredly. “When he asked you if you are his dad. What did you say?”

Understanding dawns in Colin’s eyes and she watches as he runs a hand through his hair. “I didn’t tell him anything,” he finally says, moving to sit down next to her, “I was not sure what you wanted him to know, so I avoided the question and followed you into the bathroom.” Emma breathes out shakily and leans her head on his shoulder.

“What am I supposed to tell him?” She sighs. “I mean… I wasn’t planning on ever seeing either of them again. Especially not Neal.” He reaches for her hand, pressing a kiss to her temple while resting his bad arm on the small of her back. “You can tell him whatever you think is best, my love.”

She pouts and squeezes his hand a little harder. “That is not helping. I have no idea what is best. I’m not even sure if talking to the kid at all is a good idea.”

Colin sighs and shakes his head, “That I do not know either. But I am sure it cannot hurt. Now,” he kisses her cheek before getting to his feet again and tugging her to her feet too, “We should get ready and get breakfast—Granny makes the most delicious pancakes.”

She smiles (she loves pancakes for breakfast) and nods. “Sounds great. Oh,” she moves towards the small adjoining bathroom, a smirk plastered onto her lips, “since you’re so eager to get our day started, maybe we shouldn’t shower together—you know,” she grins at the expression on his face, “to avoid getting _distracted_.”

She barely gets the chance to blink before his lips are back on hers and he’s backing her into the bathroom—oh yeah…

Plenty of distraction.

.

.

.

“Didn’t I tell you, love? Best pancakes in the world, I swear,” Colin brags, wrapping an arm around Emma’s shoulders and pressing a loud, smacking, wet kiss to her cheek when she whines and tries to protest to his sudden need for PDA’s, though she knows he’s not consciously aware that he’s being more affectionate than he usually is. She glances around the diner quickly, noting that the only people here are Granny, her granddaughter Ruby, the Sherriff and a young woman with pitch black hair and beautiful fair complexion.

“Yeah, yeah,” she smiles, because she does love the way he smiles when she indulges him and lets him show her off to the world (which she doesn’t do nearly enough, according to him), “You told me. These are pretty damn awesome. Cocoa is really good too,” she adds, reaching for her nearly empty cup.

“Aye,” he nods, poking at his own food, “That it is.” She sighs and leans in to press a kiss of her own to his stubbled cheek before turning back to her food.

His moods are all over the place, and though she’s used to him being somewhat mercurial from time to time, even she feels like she’s getting a whiplash by how fast his moods can change—she knows it’s because they’re here.

Storybrooke.

She knows that he holds a lot of hurt and resentment against a lot of the people here, and that it’s hard for him to be back here—but he’s here anyway.

For her.

And she wants him to know how much she loves him for it.

“Any plans for today, future-hubby?” She asks playfully, keeping her tone light and cheery on purpose, hoping that he’ll be able to shake off whatever funk he’s in now and that they can continue their day the way it had started.

She just wants to enjoy the day with her fiancé.

That cannot be too much to ask, can it?

“Actually,” he hesitates, and it puts her on edge immediately—Colin never hesitates to tell her anything—, “I do have something I want to do today…” He looks up at her slowly, his blue eyes filled with the kind of pain that nearly takes her breath away, and makes her want to hold him, hide him in their apartment back in Boston and never let him leave again, so he’d never have to hurt again. “…But I have to do it alone,” he continues softly.

She stiffens and starts shaking her head before he’s even finished talking, because there’s no way she’s letting him out of her sight in this town.

Nah-uh.

Not happening.

“Emma, love,” he whispers, “I need to do this. I will not be gone long, darling, an hour, two at most. I just…” He cuts off and looks away from her, and it’s the torn expression on his face that makes her realize he _needs_ this.

Whatever it is, he needs it.

“Okay,” she mutters, “But if you’re not back in two hours, I swear to God, I will find where you are and kick your ass for worrying me.” He chuckles, and some of the tension in his expression and body language dissipates as he leans in to kiss her. “I would despair if you didn’t, my love.”

She smiles against his lips and pouts a little when he pulls away. “Okay, fine,” she pouts, “Go, before I change my mind.” He frowns confusedly and stares at her for a moment. “Darling, I don’t need to leave right this second—”

“Yes,” she interrupts, “Yes, you do. The sooner you leave, the sooner you’ll be back, and the sooner we can… Do something _togethe_ r. We haven’t spent time with just the two of us for a long time—not without either or both of us worrying about work or something. So when you’re done,” she runs her fingers through his soft, dark hair, “meet me back here, and then we’ll go for a walk on the beach and then just turn in early, order some Chinese or pizza—if this place _has_ that—,” she adds, “and watch a movie… Celebrate our engagement.”

His eyes sparkle, and she can see the moment his mood switches again, his eyes brightening and his lips quirking in that adorable little smile that makes her heart skip a beat every time she sees it.

“Sounds bloody brilliant, Emma,” he smiles, stealing another kiss that takes her breath away, before moving away reluctantly, and walking over to Granny to pay the bill. She watches as he flirts the socks off the little old lady and shakes her head with a small, exasperated smile—he’ll never change.

He hurries back over to where she’s sitting and shrugs his coat on, leaning into the booth one more time to kiss her—her heart still skips a beat when he does that—and to whisper a soft ‘I love you’ against her lips before he walks out the door, zipping up his leather coat as he does.

She doesn’t realize she’s staring after him until Ruby suddenly appears next to her table, setting down a full mug of hot cocoa with cinnamon on top in front of her, moving to clear the table of the remnants of her and Killian’s breakfast. Emma looks up at the tall, leggy waitress in confusion and touches the mug gingerly, “Uh… Thanks, but I didn’t order this.”

“Oh, I know,” the girl’s grin is positively wolfish as she leans in and whispers, “You’ve got yourself an admirer. It’s really not fair—you’ve already got one hot Irishman.”

Emma raises both of her eyebrows at Ruby, who just shrugs and nods towards the table in the corner of the diner, occupied by … The Sherriff.

Of-fucking-course.

She sighs heavily and gets up, heading over to his table with purposeful strides, setting the cup down on the table with a loud ‘clack’. He looks up slowly, his expression almost bashful, and she has to admit, if she didn’t have Colin…

But she does.

She does have Colin, and she _loves_ Colin.

“You’re still here,” he says softly, his small smile obviously designed to disarm and charm her— _bad luck, buddy_ , she thinks, _I’ve got a boyfriend who’s perfected that look… I’m immune_. “Oh, good,” she crosses her arms over her chest, raising an eyebrow at him, “You do have observational skills. See this?” She wiggles her left ring finger at him, showcasing the diamond ring Colin had slid off her necklace and onto her finger this morning, “This is an engagement ring, buddy. Now, I don’t know what game your trying to play, but you better back off. I love my fiancé, and I’m not _interested_ at all, okay?”

She notes with satisfaction that his smile falls immediately, and his eyes cloud a little with something she’d swear looks like hurt—but it really is ridiculous. The guy’s sleeping with Regina (that, she’s sure of), so she really doesn’t get what the hell he thinks he’s doing, trying to buy her drinks.

“Look,” he says softly, and she has to lean forward to be able to hear what he’s saying, “I know you’re with Colin, but… Do you really think you know him? Because I’m fairly certain that there are many things about his past he hasn’t told you.” She stares at him, at a loss of words—she knows her mouth his hanging open, but honestly.

Who the hell does he think he is?

“Whatever is going on between me and Colin,” she hisses, “is _private_. It is _none_ of your business what he does and does not tell me, and for the record, I do not give a damn about his past—am I making myself clear?” she glares at Graham, her arms crossed, a frown wrinkling her forehead.

“Crystal,” he returns, his eyes colder and icier than before, “I was just trying to be a gentleman; it seemed prudent to warn you away from him—he’s not a good person, miss Swan.”

She returns the icy look with one of her own, and if looks could kill, the Sherriff would have died right then and there. “Actually,” she spits, “I prefer Mrs. Brody now.” With that, she turns and stomps back to her own table, snatching her red leather jacket from the back of her seat and pulling it on with angry, clumsy moves, before stomping out of the diner, never so much as looking at Graham.

She doesn’t know why that set her off, but it _did_ and she hates that Graham actually had the nerve to tell her that he knows her fiancé better than she does—insufferable jackass.

She doesn’t look where she’s going and roughly bumps shoulders with someone. She turns to yell at whoever had the misfortune of being in her way when she realizes it’s the same young woman she’d seen in the diner earlier, with the pitch black hair, short pixie haircut and the soft smile. “Sorry,” Emma grumbles, “I wasn’t paying attention.”

The woman smiles kindly and shakes her head. “Oh, that’s okay—I heard what the Sherriff said to you; I’m sorry.” Emma looks up at her with confusion, and the woman smiles indulgently, “Graham and Colin never really got along, but that doesn’t excuse what he said—you’re right, it’s yours and Colin’s business, not his. I’m Mary-Margret, by the way.”

She offers Emma a gloved hand, that Emma accepts, still half-dazed because of the woman apologizing on behalf of someone else. “Emma,” she stutters, “Emma Swa—Brody. You’re Henry’s teacher, right?” She vaguely recalls Henry mentioning the name a few times when they were driving from Boston to Storybrooke.

Mary-Margret smiles sweetly and nods, “I am. You’re taking Colin’s name already?” Emma shrugs a little, stuffing her hands in her pockets. “I want him to know that I love him no matter what anyone tries to tell me—this seemed like the easiest and the most obvious way.”

There’s something so _familiar_ about Mary-Margret, and she just can’t place the feeling—it’s slightly unnerving.

Mary-Margret nods, accepting the explanation for what it is—the truth. “Well, Emma,” she says with a bit of an uncertain undertone in her voice, “Would you like a tour of Storybrooke?”  Emma glances back at the diner for a moment before shrugging. “Yeah,” she replies, “Sure, why not.”

Mary-Margret gestures towards the sidewalk, and they walk in companionable silence for a few minutes, before the raven-haired woman asks, “So, how did you meet? If don’t mind my asking.” Emma considers the possibility of just shrugging the question off and ignoring the woman, but she seems sweet and something about her screams ‘ _trustworthy’_. “At Starbucks,” she chuckles lightly, “He spilled my coffee and bought me a new one. Tried to pretend he was a gentleman,” she smirks and shakes her head, “I didn’t buy that for a second. But he’s a good guy. And I love him.”

“Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise,” Mary-Margret suddenly says, her expression serious and firm, “Colin’s one of the good guys—he’s been through a lot, and he’s done stupid things, but he’s a good person. He always has been.”

They continue in silence for a moment while Emma tries to gather her thoughts, a small smile tugging on her lips as she whispers, “I know.”

.

.

.

Colin pushes his hand deeper into his pocket, trying not to feel guilty about leaving Emma at the diner by herself—he needs this moment; he needs to do this.

He should have done this years ago, when he left Storybrooke.

He stares intently at the gravestone before him, trying to decide what he wants to say—what he has left to say; he had spent many a night here, drunk as a skunk, yelling at the cold, lifeless marble plate, purging all of his grief, his fear, his anger—but it had never been enough.

It’s still not enough.

“I’m still mad at you,” he says softly, “You bloody bastard—you left me to fend for myself in this wretched town.” He pulls his hand from his pocket and runs his fingers through his hair—a nervous habit he picked up from Emma, he swears—pacing restlessly in front of the grave. “I did get out; I suppose you knew that already, wherever you are now—bet you and the lady had a bloody good laugh at it too… But I found her. That one woman I would lay down my life for—that makes me feel glad to be alive—that completely consumes me.”

He stops pacing and looks down at his worn motorcycle boots as he breathes, “And I’ll marry her. You’d be proud of me. At least, I hope you would be—I’m starting my own life; my own family… But in order to do that,” he chokes a little, a single tear rolling down his cheek, the broken, torn, dark, hurt part of him tearing at his insides, consuming him with a kind of pain he had been avoiding since he left.

“In order to do that,” he continues, “I need to let you go. I need to let you rest. I cannot be resentful and angry and hurt for the rest of my life. I do not want to be—Emma deserves someone who can give her everything… And I want to be that man. So,” he swallows thickly, tracing his fingers over the names carved into the cold marble, “I need to say goodbye. I’m ready to say goodbye.” He closes his eyes for a moment, forcing back the hollow ache deep in his chest, “Goodbye brother.”

He turns around and walks away slowly, not once looking back at the gravestone that carries the names of his family—his past.

The two names of the last family he’d had before Emma.

_Liam Brody  
° December 12, 1974  
_ _\+ June 23, 2000_

_Milah Woods-Brody  
° April 13, 1976  
_ _\+ June 23, 2000_


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

“Okay,” Emma, smiles politely as she and Mary-Margret come to a slow stop in front of the Diner, “Well, thanks for the tour.” She pushes her hands into her pockets and smiles at the woman, “It was nice to see the town.” Mary-Margret smiles sweetly and nods, “Well, it was nice showing you around—I’m surprised Colin hadn’t done so yet.”

Emma shrugs, looking around to see whether the man in question is approaching too, “Well, to be fair, we didn’t get here until late last night, and I really wasn’t interested in seeing anything but a bed by the time we finally got to the B&B.”

“Yeah, I can imagine you were really tired after… Everything.” The sympathetic look in Mary-Margret’s eyes makes Emma cringe a little, because as much as she likes the woman (and she does, really, Mary-Margret is the definition of sweet and kind) it makes her uncomfortable to have the woman see her emotional about anything—she’s actually uncomfortable about being emotional in front of _anyone_ , even Colin.

It’s been like that for the past two hours though—Mary-Margret would casually mention Henry, or Colin, and then give her that sweet, sympathetic look that makesEmma’s skin crawl, and that just makes her want to run away screaming.

“Right,” she drawls, shifting a little before she _finally_ sees Colin walk towards them, coming from the opposite direction, “Oh, Colin’s here,” she exclaims excitedly, half-happy because he’s saving her from a potential conversational disaster, and half because…

Well… She missed him.

“Hey,” Emma greets him enthusiastically, practically jumping into his arms, “I missed you.” Colin catches her and shoots a questioning glance over her shoulder at Mary-Margret, who just shrugs. He kisses Emma’s forehead quickly, before pressing a kiss to her lips. “And I you, darling,” he says slowly, “Are you alright?”

He pushes her back slightly, so he can look at her—it’s always been unlike Emma to really be into emotional declarations, much less to actually initiate any sort of PDA (especially in front of someone else), so he’s a little worried. She blinks confusedly before nodding, “Yeah. I was just…” she paints a smile on her lips that he can immediately tell is fake, “I was just a little worried about you.”

He can tell that there’s more to it than just that, but he can also see her reluctance to share whatever it is that bothers her, so he does not press the issue and simply smiles at her, kissing her temple before turning to Mary-Margret. “It is nice to see you again, Mary-Margret.”

“Yeah,” she nods, “You too. I’m going to have to go, though,” she frowns a little, “I’ve got some schoolwork to catch up on, but I’ll see you two around.” With that, the raven-haired teacher waves at them and walks back to the Diner.

“So, love,” Colin wraps an arm around Emma, pulling her into his arms as they walk, “How about that walk on the beach?” Emma sighs happily and slides her arm around his waist, nodding eagerly. “Please,” she says, “I’ve had enough of Storybrooke people for the day.” He frowns, tugging her a little closer and cursing the narrow-minded idiots in Storybrooke for somehow upsetting his Emma.

“That bad, love?” He questions softly, slightly afraid to hear the answer.

She sighs and shakes her head a little, “No, just… Annoying. The Sherriff’s a smug son of bitch too. Who the hell does he think he is?” His frown grows, and he tightens his hand on Emma’s shoulder briefly before he gets a hold on himself. He and Humbert have never gotten along—he had always been too much of a sanctimonious bastard for Colin’s taste.

Graham liked to pretend he was so much better than Colin was—Colin always was (and still is) the _other_ Irish boy; the one that didn’t do as well as sweet, lovely, polite Graham.

It got a lot worse after Graham started working at the Sherriff’s Department—after Colin started acting out when Liam and Milah died. “He thinks he’s a bloody saint,” he grumbles, leaning down to press a swift kiss to Emma’s messy curls, “Ignore him. His big head needs some deflating.”

Emma hums in agreement and reaches for his fake hand (the gesture still makes his heart clench every time she does it, even after nearly five years). “I may have deflated him a little already,” she chuckles, and he smiles at the imagery it provides. “That’s my girl,” he grumbles approvingly, pressing another kiss to her temple.

They continue walking in silence for a while after that, both of them lost in their own thoughts—Colin musing quietly over how long it would take him to convince Emma to marry him right then and there, and Emma wondering whether or not to tell him about the things Graham said to her.

Well, that, and wondering what the hell she would tell Henry if he asked about his father again.

Emma revels in the smell of the ocean the second they set foot on the beach, and inhalesthe salty air greedily—she really loves the beach and the ocean. “God, I’ve missed this,” she exclaims happily, running towards the waterline, looking out over the bluish grey of the ocean, the roar of waves crashing onto the sand loud in her ears. “It’s still so beautiful.”

Colin’s heart clenches at the heartbreakingly beautiful, happy smile that spreads over her lips, and he moves to stand behind her, his arms sliding around her waist. “Aye, it is, love.” He buries his nose in her curls and hugs her tightly, taking comfort in her embrace, her presence—he has said goodbye to the only other person he had ever loved today, but he’s got Emma.

He has her, and he’ll never let her go.

She sinks into his arms, leaning back against his chest contently—and then something… Something washes over her, and she remembers the feel of strong arms around her waist, sweet whispers in her ear, the salty smell of the open ocean in her nose and the sunset…

A beautiful sunset.

Her eyes snap open again and she jerks away from Colin instinctively, breathing heavily. “Fuck,” she curses, “What the hell?”

“Emma?” Colin’s voice snaps her from… whatever the hell it was, and she looks up into his startled, confused eyes. “Love, are you alright?” She swallows thickly, her heart beating a mile a minute, and her ears still ringing—Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell was that?—trying to shake offthe residual shock, before nodding quickly. “Yeah, I’m sorry—I’m fine.” She wraps her arms around him again and kisses him to try to distract him; to keep him from asking more questions that she doesn’t know the answer to.

It takes him a moment to kiss her back, and for a second, she’s scared he’ll pull away and continue questioning her, but then his arms come up and wrap around her, and she knows she’s won; he knows.

He knows not to ask—he always does.

And she loves him for it.

“Come on,” she cajoles lightly when he does finally break the kiss, “Let’s take that walk.” He nods slowly and reaches for her hand, entwining their fingers as they continue walking down the beach in silence.

The silence is comfortable, warm, and Emma loves that she doesn’t feel the need to fill the moment with mindless chatter—Colin loves this as much as she does; they don’t need words to say so.

“Emma!” They’ve been walking for nearly twenty minutes when someone suddenly cries out for her attention, and she jumps at the sudden sound, roughly bursting the calm, peaceful bubble she’d holed up in with Colin. They turn simultaneously to look at the small figure that’s jumping up and down on top of what looks to be a castle or something, waving his arms desperately to get their attention.

Emma can’t stop the small chuckle that falls from her lips at the sight of the kid, shaking her head a little. Colin laughs too, moving towards her son, tugging on her hand when she doesn’t immediately follow him. “Aren’t you coming, lass?” he frowns at her.

She breathes in deeply and smiles. “I am, I just…” She bites her lip and shakes her head, “I think I should talk to him by myself… Without you there…” She stares at their feet rather than to look him in the eye—she’s scared of seeing the hurt in his eyes, because the last thing she ever wants to do is hurt him, but she needs this.

She’s got a feeling that the kid won’t be as open with her when Colin’s there too.

“Swan,” his voice is soft and gentle, the feeling of his calloused fingertips on her skin almost heavenly. “Swan, darling, look at me.” She wants to be stubborn and refuse his request, but his fingers move before she can even attempt to be stubborn, and push her chin up, so he can look at her. “Did you honestly think I would not understand?” She just shrugs, unsure of what to say—she doesn’t want to admit that she judged him wrong.

She still tends to think the worst of him, even though he’s never given her any reason to.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers sheepishly, looking down again. “Don’t, love,” he smiles softly, “I understand. How about I go back to the Bed and Breakfast and order us that pizza and find us a good movie,” he grins, leaning in to kiss her softly, “you talk to the lad, walk him home, and come back to me.”

She stares at him in disbelief and awe, her lips twisting into a warm smile. “You’re perfect,” she breathes, tiptoeing to kiss him hard, “Have I ever told you that?” He looks down uncomfortably, and she smiles at the shy blush on his cheeks. “I’m far from perfect, my love,” he says softly, almost ashamed, and she wants to curse whoever it is that made her sweet fiancé feel like he’s worth shit.

“You are to me,” she smiles, “That’s all that matters.”

He nods a little, before moving to press a quick kiss to her forehead. “Go love. I’ll see you at the Bed and Breakfast.” She nods quickly, pressing another kiss to his lips before turning to where her son—God, it still feels so weird to call him that—is waiting.

 “Hey kid,” she smiles uncertainly when she reaches him. She has no idea how to behave around him; for all she knows, the kid hates her guts for giving him up—she knows she hates her parents for leaving her by the side of the road like she was nothing more than a piece of trash. She knows that what she did for Henry isn’t the same…

But it might feel like that for him.

He smiles brilliantly at her, gesturing towards the big rickety castle he’s been sitting on. Emmafidgets uncomfortably but obliges and sits down next to him anyway, smiling a little. “You know,” she drawls, “Leaving your book in our car was a smart move.” She doesn’t miss the sly smile on the kid’s face, and she chuckles under her breath.

“Colin has it at the B&B,” she says slowly, “I can ask him to bring it now, if you want.” Henry shakes his head hurriedly, and she frowns at his quick response—if she didn’t know better, she’d think he doesn’twant Colin to be near them. “Okay, kid,” she frowns, “What’s up?”

Henry looks up at her, his eyes wide—he almost looks like a deer caught in headlights. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he squeaks. She almost laughs at how terrible he is at lying to her, but just barely manages to keep a straight face. “What did I tell you about lying, kid?” She tries to sound stern, but all it does is make her feel weird at how mom-like she suddenly sounds.

He looks down sheepishly and sighs. “I know, I know, I’m sorry. I just want to talk to you about breaking the Curse, and I can’t tell anyone but you about it!” She runs her fingers through her messy curls with a sigh, “Kid, Colin and I are getting married… I’m sure it’s okay to tell him about… the Curse and all. We can trust him.”

He looks up at her and pouts, “Is he my dad?” She’s taken aback by the directness of the question, flailing as she tries to decide how to answer that. “No,” she finally chokes, “No, your dad and I…” she swallows thickly and shakes her head, “We were never a big thing or anything. When I found out about you, I tried to find him…” She bites her lip and nearly chokes on the biggest lie she’s ever told, “… He was a firefighter. He died trying to get a family out of a fire.”

Henry looks down and she winces at the devastated look on his face. “So he died a hero?” Henry questions softly. Emma smiles tightly and nods, rubbing her engagement ring nervously. “Yeah, kid,” she says, “He did. But I was only seventeen.. I couldn’t take care of you—I could barely take care of myself.”

She’s not exactly lying.

She couldn’t take care of him—but she can now, and she won’t set the kid up to be hurt by Neal like she was.

“Did you love him?”

She doesn’t know why the question surprises her—the kid’s all about fairytales and True Love. “No,” she answers honestly, “It wasn’t like that.” The crestfallen look on Henry’s face makes her feel awful for being this honest, but he brightens up quickly. “But you do love Colin?”

“Yes,” she says slowly, “I do.”

Henry nods and then looks up at the clock tower, just barely visible from where they’re sitting. “Hasn’t moved yet, has it?” She smirks playfully at him, trying to coax a laugh from him, but all he does is shake his head and mumble, “I thought it would start when I brought you here.”

Emma frowns in confusion, “What would start?”

“The big battle,” Henry cries, “You need to break the Curse and bring back the Happy Endings!”

“Yeah,” Emma sighs, “I don’t think I’ll be fighting any battles, kid.” Henry pouts at her—it’s ridiculous how cute he looks when he does that—and whines, “But you have to! It’s your destiny.”

“Can you cut it with the book-crap, kid?” She moans in exasperation—honestly, all she wanted was to have a normal conversation with the kid.

That can’t be that much to ask, can it?

“You know,” Henry smiles innocently, “you don’t have to be hard on me. I know you like me, I can tell. You don’t have to feel guilty, you know. And you don’t have to push me away.” She stares at him, wide-eyed and at a loss of words (he has the tendency to do that to her and it annoys the crap out of her). He smiles sweetly and continues, “I know you just wanted to give me my best chance when you gave me away.”

“How do you know that?” She croaks, cursing herself for how broken her voice sounds. “The same reason Snow White gave you away,” he replies, and she has to restrain herself from shaking some sense into him, because this…

This is too much.

“Listen, kid,” she says slowly, tightly, “I’m not in any book. I’m a real person, and I’m no Savior.” She swallows thickly and continues, “You were right about one thing **,** though… I wanted you to have your best chance. But it’s not with me.”

She can feel hot, pained tears burning in her eyes and she _can’t_ let him see her cry, so she jumps down, walking back towards the beach. “Come on,” she says gruffly, “Let’s go.”

“Please,” Henry jumps to his feet and follows her, “Please don’t take me back there. Just stay with me for one week, that’s all I ask! I’ll even be nice to Colin because you love him! Just don’t take me back to my mom—you don’t know what my life is like there. It sucks!”

“You want to know what sucking is?” She bursts, whirling around, “Sucking is being abandoned on the side ofa freeway—my parents didn’t even have the decency to leave me at a hospital. I had a family until I was _three_ , and then they had their own so they gave me back.” Her voice breaks and she closes her eyes briefly, taking a few deep breaths before leaning down so she can look Henry in the eye. “Look, your mom is trying her best. And I know it’s hard and that you feel like she doesn’t love you sometimes, but…” She bites her lip and tries to smile, “At least she wants you, kid. No one’s ever wanted me before Colin did.”

Henry looks at her intently for a long, tense moment before he says, “But they didn’t leave you on the side of the road. That’s just where you came through with the magical wardrobe. They did it to save you.”

She bites her lip harshly and smiles a little, despite her mood and nods, “Of course they did. Come on, let’s get back to town. I promised Colin I’d be back soon. How about I buy you breakfast tomorrow? If you tell your mom where you are.” She raises an eyebrow at him and offers him her hand with a smile, “Deal?”

Henry looks at her hand for a moment, almost as though he’s contemplating his next move, before shrugging and shaking her hand.

“Deal.”

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.

.

Colin zips his jacket a little higher, taken aback by the sudden cold wind. He hopes Emma and Henry are okay, back on the beach; it is colder there, and Emma had only been wearing her thin red leather jacket. He smirks—he's not complaining, he loves her in that bloody sexy as hell leather jacket—and shakes his head. He needs to see if Granny still makes Hawaiian pizza, and if not, he has to convince her to make it for his lovely Swan.

After all, he did promise her they could spend their night together and alone, like they had not done in a long time. He wonders briefly how her conversation with the lad is going—she's been nervous about it all day, and he hopes, for both her and the lad's sake, that the conversation runs smoothly.

He spots Archie and Pongo walking towards him and nods in greeting, before remembering something the man had mentioned the previous night. He swivels around and runs after Archie, catching up with the man rather quickly. "Archie!" he smiles awkwardly at the man—he does like him, but he cannot forget that the man is a therapist and probably analyses every word he says—, "I wondered if you could tell me something."

"Colin," Archie smiles pleasantly, "Well, that depends on what it is, of course." He watches as Pongo start sniffing Colin's legs and he pulls him back gently, mumbling to his loyal companion that he shouldn't do that to people.

Colin leans down and pats Pongo's head, smiling up at Archie briefly, "Well, I was wondering if you could tell me about Henry—I know Emma is rather worried about the lad, and... Well.." He shrugs awkwardly. "I am worried about Emma, so..."

"Hmm," Archie muses thoughtfully, continuing to walk down the road, "You know I can't discuss anything that happened during one of our sessions, Colin. And I can't tell you what I was told in trust either."

"No," Colin shakes his head, "Of course, it’s just... These fairytales, thinking that we all are characters from a storybook," he frowns and runs his good hand through his hair, "Is there something that brought it on? A reason that he ..." Colin sighs and shrugs, "It is crazy."

The therapist merely looks ahead, as if debating what he should and shouldn't say. He stares down at Pongo for a moment before he answers, "Maybe you should ask Henry instead. I'm sure he'll be willing to talk to you about it." He sighs and then smiles, "Henry is a good boy, Colin. A brave boy. He's just been through some hard times. And the fairytales... Whether they're true or not, I believe they've helped him become happier."

Colin nods slowly, biting his lip, "I'm not sure about that," he says slowly, "I'm not sure if the lad likes me at all."

"Give him time," Archie smiles kindly, "If anything, Henry needs time and patience—he probably did not plan to find his mother in a steady relationship." He observes Colin attentively, wondering why the man seems to be genuinely interested in Emma's son. "Colin, can I ask you something in return?"

Colin eyes Archie nervously, but nods nonetheless. "I suppose so."

"Why are you so willing to understand the boy?" Archie asks calmly, noticing just how nervous Colin is, "Is it just about your concerns for Emma?”

"Well, of course," Colin frowns, "I love Emma, and we are to be married. If Henry wishes us to be a part of his life, I will have to get to know him too—he seems like a good lad." Archie nods, stopping in front of a house as he smiles at Colin again, "He is. He always has been. Would you like to come in for coffee, Colin?"

Colin smiles politely, but shakes his head. "No, thank you, I should head back, Emma's expecting me to be waiting for her at the Bed and Breakfast. You wouldn't happen to know if Granny still makes those delicious Hawaiian Pizzas, would you?" He smiles cheekily and winks at Archie.

"Oh, of course," Archie smiles, "She still makes them. Always has, as far as I can remember." He nods Colin goodbye, turning around to walk to his front door, before he looks back at Colin and says, "Oh, and I should congratulate you, of course. Emma seems like an amazing woman and I'm glad you found someone to love at last."

Colin smiles, slightly surprised by the other man's words, and inclines his head, "Thank you. She is quite lovely. Goodnight, Archie." He turns and heads back towards the Diner slowly, mulling over his conversation with Archie silently.

Archie sighs, making sure Pongo's starts eating his food before he walks to the kitchen to fetch his phone. He fumbles with the cord nervously, when finally, the person on the other side of the line picks up. "You're right," he mumbles, ignoring how Pongo starts growling instantly, "He showed up just five minutes ago. What do I do now?"

.

.

.

Colin’s just barely finished setting up their room the way he planned to—Emma always pretends to hate it when he goes all cliché-romantic on her, but he knows she secretly loves the candles and rose petals when he _does_ decide to go all out for her—when someone impatiently starts knocking on the door.

“Alright, alright,” he grumbles, “Hold your bloody horses, I’m coming.”

He swings the door open, glaring at the man on the other side of it. “Oh. You. What do you want, Humbert?” Graham glares disapprovingly at him, and spits, “You just couldn’t help yourself, could you? You haven’t even been in town for more than twenty-four hours and you already screwed up.”

“Excuse me?” Colin stares at Graham indignantly, “Look, mate, whatever got your panties in a bunch, it’ll have to wait, because I have something planned with my fiancé, and you do not want to be the one to interrupt our evening.”

“Damn it, Brody,” Graham exclaims when Colin tries to shut the door in his face, “Did you speak to Doctor Hopper today?” Colin frowns and runs his fingers through his hair, nodding slowly, his patience already waning. “Yes, I did—I talked to him briefly when he was walking Pongo—why?”

“Did you or did you not try to speak to him about Henry Mills?”

“Yes, I spoke to him about Henry,” Colin frowns confusedly, “What is this about, Humbert?” Something gleams in Graham’s eyes when he suddenly grabs Colin’s shoulders and roughly forces him to turn around,  the reality of the situation not even fully dawning on Colin until he feels the cold metal of the handcuffs on his wrist.

“Colin Brody, you are under arrest for threats and harassment towards Doctor Archibald Hopper.”

.

.

.

“Turn to the right.”

Graham’s voice is hard and void of emotion, and Colin suppresses the urge to roll his eyes at him as he turns. “You do realize this is bloody ridiculous, don’t you?” he sighs, squeezing his eyes shut for a second after the flash from the camera, “I did not threaten Archie—he happens to be one of the few people in this town that I do not despise.”

“Really?” Graham smirks, “It does fit with your history, _mate_.”

Colin sighs and shakes his head. “I’m not an eighteen-year-old hothead anymore,” he spits at Graham, “And I certainly have better things to do than to spend the night in a jail cell for something I did not do.” Graham smirks at him and gestures for him to turn to the other side, “And I’m sure Archie has better things to do than to falsely accuse you, Brody.”

Colin snorts and shakes his head, “Someone must have told him to lie, Humbert. You are simply being petty.” Graham doesn’t bother to respond, and Colin doesn’t bother to care; he is preoccupied by trying to decipher _why_ Archie would tell such a lie.

He had always liked the therapist; he had always been kind to him and had offered him help on multiple occasions before Colin left town. He lets Graham tug him over to the holding cells and offers no protests when he removes the handcuffs and shoves him into the cell a little more roughly than necessary.

“So, tell me,” Graham starts, leaning back in his desk chair, “How did a straggler like you land a girl like Emma?” Colin rolls his eyes—he’d been wondering when Graham would bring up Emma; he’s not stupid, he’s seen the way Graham was looking at _his_ fiancée this morning at breakfast—it’s not like he doesn’t understand, Emma is bloody beautiful—and he does not appreciate it whatsoever.

“Well,” Colin leans his forearms on the cold bars on the jail cell and shrugs, “I’m afraid we are not close enough to share that kind of _girl talk_ , dearest Sherriff.” He frowns when a thought hits him and demands, “Speaking of, I do believe I get a phone call.” He smirks at Graham’s frown, “Also, I don’t believe I was informed of my rights—if I recall correctly that is a grievous mistake. I might just get off with no more than a warning because of procedural faults,” his grin grows at the sour look on Graham’s face. “What will it be, Sherriff,” Colin taunts Graham—he knows it’s childish, but he honestly can’t help himself—, “my phone call or my immediately release?”

Before Graham can respond (or before he can rile him up any further) the door to the station slams open and bounces off against the wall—both men flinch lightly at the harsh sound—and Emma storms in, her hair still wild and messed up from the strong wind, he presumes, her cheeks a lovely rosy red. “Well, hello there, love,” he smiles, “I was just about to call you.”

“You,” she glares at Colin, who has the decency to at least look sheepish, “You are in so much trouble.” Normally, that glare would intimidate him—he remembers the many nights in Boston he’s spent in the guest room because he did something that pissed Emma off—but there’s this small sparkle of amusement in her eyes that tells him he’s not in that much trouble at all. “Oh,” he hums in amusement, “I’m looking forward to my punishment then, love.”

She rolls her eyes at him and turns back to Graham, her arms crossed over her chest, a frown rippling her forehead. “And you. Why, exactly, is my fiancé in a jail cell?”

“He threatened someone—they filed a complaint,” Graham shrugs, “I tried to warn you, miss Swan.” Emma stiffens as Colin bellows, “What the bloody hell are you talking about?” Emma glares at Graham. “And I told you,” she hisses, leaning forward, placing one hand on the desk, so she’s almost nose-to-nose with Graham, “I prefer Mrs. _Brody_. Now, I’m posting his bail. Let. Him. Out.”

“Miss Swan—”

“Mrs. Brody,” Emma nearly spits, “And that wasn’t a question. Out. Now.”

Colin can see—though barely—that Graham attempts to hold his own against Emma’s intense glare, but it doesn’t take long (barely more than a minute) before he caves and gets up, grumbling under his breath, grabbing the keys from his desk and unlocking the door.

“Why thank you,” Colin smirks, patting Graham on the shoulder patronizingly, “As much as this has been a _lovely_ visit, we will be leaving now.” He moves to stand next to Emma, sliding his arm around her waist, smiling devilishly at her when she glares at him. “Colin?” she says when Graham moves back to the desk to fill out paperwork.

“Yes, dear?” he grins down at her, ignoring Graham’s angry glares and Emma’s frown.

She smiles sweetly (that’s his first clue; he’s in _big_ trouble) and pats his arm. “Shut up before I make you.” He chuckles and presses a kiss to her temple before she wiggles her way out of his arms to fill out some of the paperwork Graham pushed towards her.

“As you wish, love,” he chuckles, plopping down in one of the chairs to wait until Emma’s done.

It is not until they’re walking down the street hand-in-hand, twenty minutes later, that Emma finally speaks up—asking the question he’d been dreading since they’d decided to take Henry back to Storybrooke.

“What happened? Before you left? I know about the car accident, but…” she sighs and stops walking, tugging him to a stop as well, “You never told me about anything else.” He winces—he’d known he had to tell her about it sometime, but that didn’t mean he had to look forward to it. “I know,” he concedes, “And I’m sorry. It’s just not easy to talk about.”

Emma strokes his cheek, waiting patiently for him to gather his thoughts, wrapping her free arm around his waist in a half-hug. “When I was … Seventeen,” he starts slowly, hesitantly, “my brother and Milah started having problems. I found Liam passed out on the couch—” he chokes, and Emma winces resting her head on his chest and hugging him closer, waiting patiently for him to continue. “—I got a call from the Rabbit Hole, asking come get Milah… Telling me she was too drunk to let her go home alone.”

“When I got there, she was dancing on top of the bar—I’d never seen her that drunk before. I tried to get her to come down, to get her to come home, but she fell. I managed to catch her, and she was okay—and then she moaned something about how she wanted both of us and … kissed me.”

Emma reels back, staring at him with wide eyes. “What?”

“Yeah,” Colin barks a humorless laugh, “That was my response too. I was so surprised that I didn’t push her off instantly—but that split-second was enough for everyone in Storybrooke to conclude that I was the scumbag who was sleeping with his brother’s wife behind his back.” He looks down, and Emma grimaces at the pained, shameful look in his eyes. “They were fighting about the rumors before Liam lost control over the steering wheel,” he adds slowly, his voice soft, “when I woke up at the hospital, they told me they were both dead…”

He swallows thickly, shaking his head roughly when a tear rolls down his cheek, “I overheard the nurses say that it was probably my fault—for causing them to fight.”

“Oh,” Emma shakes her head, cupping his cheeks and forcing him to look down at her, “Colin, you know that’s not true, right?” He doesn’t respond right away, and Emma’s heart clenches painfully as she digs her fingertips a little deeper into his cheeks, “Right?” She repeats, her voice thick with emotion and slight fear.

“I do now,” he admits slowly, “But I didn’t for a long time… I did stupid things before I left…”

“I’m so sorry,” Emma whispers softly, tiptoeing to press a kiss to his lips, “Thank you for telling me.” She notes how he shifts uncomfortably in her arms, putting a little distance between them—but she refuses to let him. “You know this doesn’t change how I feel about you, don’t you?”

“How can it not?” he exclaims, pushing her back, “My brother and sister-in-law are dead because of me.” Emma shakes her head and takes a few steps closer again, taking both of his hands—real and fake—in hers. “It was not your fault, Colin. I promise it was not your fault. People here are just stupid and narrow-minded and couldn’t handle how amazing you are.”

He chuckles a little, leaning in and resting his forehead against hers. “I don’t know how I’d survive without you,” he whispers, pulling her closer, his lips barely brushing over hers. “You’ll never have to know,” she smiles, stroking her fingers through his hair softly, closing that tiny gap between them to kiss him.

“I love you, Colin Brody,” she whispers when he leans back.

He hums against her lips and tugs her underneath his arm, against his side as they start walking again, “Speaking of my last name,” he chuckles, “Care to explain why you were insistent of having  Humbert call you Mrs. Brody?”

Emma grins and presses a kiss to his cheek. “Nope.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

A few days turn into a week, which turns into several weeks easily, before they even know it.

Regina is being a pain in the ass, to say the least; the moment Granny asked them to leave because of a policy no one but Regina even remembered, a mere few hours ago, is etched into Colin’s memory—he had felt horribly ashamed of himself and his exploits.

Exploits and mistakes that came back to haunt him the moment he and Emma set foot in Storybrooke.

He has a record.

Emma’s done jail time—for something she didn’t do (though that doesn’t seem to matter to anyone but him, Mary-Margret and Henry).

And apparently, despite Granny allowing him to sleep in one of the B&B’s rooms many times when he was younger, they have a ‘no-felon’ rule that Regina saw fit to enforce once news of Emma’s imprisonment as a teenager became public knowledge.

Emma’s suspicion of Regina’s activities have only grown in the last couple of days, and Colin cannot even tell her she is being paranoid; simply because he is not sure she is.

Henry has had them both tangled up in his Operation Cobra (though he still isn’t sure what a cobra has to do with fairytales), even dragging Mary-Margret into it—the sweet, kind woman had agreed to reading to the John Doe in the hospital (Prince Charming, according to Henry), which had lead to opening a whole different can of worms.

The man had woken up, to be fair, but then caused a complete chaos by freaking out and running out of the hospital—he and Emma had joined Graham, Mary-Margret and Ruby (he’s still not sure what she was doing there) on the search, and though prolonged exposure to Humbert made him act like a dick, according to his fiancé, he did like to think the five of them (six, if one was to count Henry, who followed them to help) made a good team.

They did find John Doe (who turned out to be David Nolan, who he vaguely recalled from high school), after all.

Of course, after that, it had all gone downhill; Regina had somehow managed to find David’s wife, Katherine, broke Mary-Margret’s heart in the process (even though she refuses to admit it), and decided to retaliate on him and Emma when she realized Henry had been with them the entire day by publishing Emma’s record in the local newspaper, which brings them back to their current predicament.

Emma has been quiet since they got back to their room, and he can see the tense set of her shoulders as she packs up their stuff quickly and quietly.

He has not brought up going back home, to Boston, yet.

He does not want to bring it up.

He realizes that Emma loves being here, with her son, more than she cares to admit, and that she worries and cares for the lad, that she _is_ happier here—and it scares her.

That is why he has not brought it up.

He simply wishes for Emma to be happy; he knows that he can be happy anywhere, as long as he’s with Emma, so it is her who is holding all the cards. Emma will make the decision to stay or go back home.

“Okay,” Emma snaps, zipping up the large bag holding both of their things, “I’ve got everything.” Colin studies her expression, uncertain of what Emma has in mind now. “Alright,” he sighs, moving towards her slowly, cautiously (they haven’t been fighting, per se, but they have been strained and stressed, and she hasn’t so much as kissed him in two days), “What do we do now, love?”

Emma sighs, running her fingers through her hair as she sinks down onto the bed, shaking her head. “I don’t know,” she says slowly, “I don’t know.” She tugs on her long locks for a moment before running her fingers through the curly mess on top of her head and reaching for his good hand, pulling him closer. “I’m sorry for pushing you away,” she offers, smiling softly, “I didn’t mean to… Ididn’t even realize I’d been doing it until I woke up this morning to find you on the opposite side of the bed.”

Colin shuffles uncomfortably—he, too, had been surprised to wake up so far from his fiancée (he usually can’tkeep his hands off of her, even when they sleep)—and squeezes Emma’s hand in return. “It’s alright, love. You have had a lot on your mind.”

“No,” Emma shakes her head stubbornly, “It’s not alright.” She uses his hand as leverage to pull herself to her feet, grabbing his fake hand too. “Look, Regina and I are fighting a lot over Henry and what’s best for him, and you’re right, I’ve had a lot on my mind, but that’s—” she cuts off and shakes her head again, wrapping her arms around him, resting her head on his chest. “I took it out on you, and that was wrong. I’m sorry.”

He’s silent for a moment, contemplating an appropriate answer—he does not blame Emma in the slightest; it’s how she deals with stress, always has been; and he knows she blames herself and that she’s terrified of him leaving her because of it. “It is alright, darling,” he presses a kiss to her temple, “I know you did not mean to push me away—and you will have to push a lot harder to get rid of me, my love.”

He can feel the tension drain from her muscles, her body melting into his embrace.  “Do you want to go back to Boston?” She asks softly, pushing him back so she can look at him. He hesitates, unsure what it is that he _does_ want. “I want to be with you,” he finally decides, “Whether that is here or in Boston, I do not care. I simply want to be with you—start a family, with _you_.”

Emma looks at him for a long time, her eyes roving over his face, and he realizes she’s using her ‘superpower’ to see if he’s telling her the truth. He gives her time, knowing that she needs that moment, smiling when she leans up to kiss him. “I guess we better find a place here then,” she whispers against his lips.

He falls silent, frowning deeply, “Perhaps,” he muses, “I can help with that.”

Emma frowns confusedly, and he smiles sadly, “When Liam died, I inherited the house. I did not get it legally yet, because I was not twenty-one, and I left town when I was nineteen, before it was officially transferred tomy name. Perhaps…” He trails off, looking into Emma’s big, beautiful eyes, “You can get it back,” she finishes slowly. “Are you sure that’s something you want?”

He nods—there’s absolutely no doubt in his mind that he wants to provide for Emma, for the family they might have one day. “Of course,” he smiles, “I just couldn’t bear the thought of living there on my own. With you…” He smiles and presses a quick kiss to her lips, “with you, I can imagine it being a home once again.”

The smile (hopeful, dazzling, radiating, absolutely _beautiful_ ) that appears on her face makes him feel like he can move mountains just to see her smile like that again.

“I love you, Swan,” he whispers, tightening his arms around her waist. She grumbles a little and tiptoes to kiss him. “I told you—it’s Brody now.” He smirks and starts moving her back towards the bed, muttering, “We’re not married yet, Swan,” against her lips.

“Shut up and kiss me, Irish,” she grumbles, twisting her fingers in his hair—he complies happily, allowing his fiancée to shove him back onto the bed, his eyes wide, dark and desperate as he watches her climb on top of him. “Granny has the key, love,” he chokes, “She could walk in any time.” Emma smirks devilishly and leans down, her lips barely brushing over his, “Then you better hurry up, Irish,” she grins, “Unless you want her to catch you in. All. Your. Glory,” she punctuates every word with a kiss somewhere on his body and then—then there simply isn’t enough blood in his brain for it to function anymore.

.

.

.

Emma chuckles when she watches her fiancé and her son run off together, Henry insisting on showing Colin the antique pirate ship in the harbor—he’s been claiming that Colin’s fairytale self is Captain Hook, and that showing him things about ‘himself’ would make him remember. Colin’s being amazing about it, taking it all in stride, letting Henry show him the story and talking to him about it, planning for Operation Cobra.

Today, Henry found them, crashed their breakfast and declared that he was stealing Colin from her for the day, because they have ‘boy things’ to discuss.

She was smart enough not to ask for details—she’s just relieved that Henry seems to be accepting Colin, and that he’s giving him a chance.

She sighs and shakes her head, scolding herself for swooning over Colin and the way he is with her son, and turns back to the car, biting her lip as she tries to think of something to do for the rest of the day—Colin’s meeting her back at the Diner for dinner after he’d walk Henry home and after he went to see Gold about his house, but she’s got the entire day to herself until then, and she’s not sure what to do with herself.

She really wishes they’d still have the room at Granny’s—she’s feeling _exhausted_ , and Regina’s whining about not being afraid of her and moving and crap really gave her a headache—, so she could take a nice, long, relaxing nap without sons trying to convince her to break Curses and fiancés trying to get in her pants (not that she’s been complaining).

“Emma.”

Emma jumps, pressing her hand to her chest and she swivels around, glaring at Mary-Margret, “Jesus,” she spits, “Do. Not. Do. That. You scared me.”

Mary-Margret pales considerably, regret and contrition coloring her features, and Emma immediately feels bad; she really didn’t mean to snap, but she’s been on edge since they came to town and her sleep’s been all fucked up and she really hates it when she and Colin aren’t right, like they had been before this morning’s making up (the mere memory makes her blush).

“I’m sorry,” Emma sighs, running her fingers through her hair, “I’m just tired—I didn’t mean to yell at you.”

“It’s okay,” Mary-Margret replies hesitantly, fingering the strap of her bag nervously, “I just... Well, you were just standing there, and I saw you put bags in the car earlier… You’re not leaving, are you?” Emma shrugs and shakes her head slowly, “Not if Colin can find out what happened to his house. We need somewhere else to stay.”

Mary-Margret frowns a little, tilting her head to the side. “What? Why? I thought—” she looks over her shoulder at the Diner, “Granny Lucas kicked you out?”

Emma smiles wryly and nods, “No felons allowed, apparently—Regina called to _remind_ her.” Mary-Margret winces apologetically, biting her lower lip softly. “I’m sorry… Oh, about Colin’s house,” she frowns, “It’s been empty since he left. I don’t think it was sold or anything.”

“Good,” Emma breathes, “Good, he should be able to get it back easily then.”

“Well,” Mary-Margret says slowly, biting her lip nervously, “You know, if you two really can’t get it back right away… I, uh,” she hesitates, “I do have a spare room.”

“Oh,” Emma chokes, “Uh… Thanks, but… I’m not really the roommate type… Colin isn’t really either, we just….” She feels unreasonably flustered when Mary-Margret just stares at her, “We do better when it’s just us.”

“Okay,” Mary-Margret smiles softly, “The offers stands, though.”  

They stand in relatively comfortable silence for a moment (though Mary-Margret continues fidgeting), before the lattersuddenly blurts, “Do you want to go have some lunch? I’m starving, and I only have an hour lunch break, and well…” she blushes and shrugs, “I have date tonight, and I might need some … Advice…”

 

Emma wants to refuse—she does, because she likes Mary-Margret, but the woman sees right through her and it’s disconcerting—but Mary-Margret’s smile is so sweet and sincere that Emma just really can’t bring herself to say ‘no’ (not to mention the bombshell the teacher dropped about a date; last time Emma checked, Mary-Margret was very much hung-up on David Nolan).

“You have a date?” She blurts, wincing slightly at how disbelieving that sounds. Mary-Margret takes it in stride though, chuckling lightly. “Yeah… I’m a teacher, Emma, not a nun. But I _am_ ,” she sighs, “A little out of practice… So I could use the girl talk and tips and all that, you know?”

“Sure, lunch and girl talk… Sounds great,” Emma smirks, slightly amused, checking to see if the car’s locked one more time before turning and following Mary-Margret into the Diner.

.

.

.

**Granny’s Diner—5.30 PM**

“So,” Emma frowns, “You can’t get it back?”

Colin shakes his head sadly, pushing his food around on his plate with his fork, without looking up at her. “Gold is going to look into it, but it looks like my inheritance might have been forfeited to the town when I left before it officially became mine, which would mean...”

“… That Regina can decide what to do with it now,” Emma finishes for him, “damn it.” She curls her fingers around her mug of hot chocolate and frowns. “So, what do we do now?” Colin finally stops playing with his food, laying down his fork with a clank. “I suppose we could sleep in the car for the night—wouldn’t be the worst place we’ve ever slept in. We will need to think of something though,” he shrugs, reaching across the table to take her hand in his.

Emma sinks back against the cushioned back of the booth, sighing heavily. “Well… Mary-Margret offered us her spare room,” she says hesitantly, unsure of how he’ll take that offer—she’s still not sure what to do about it herself.

She _really_ isn’t the roommate kind-of-girl.

She hated it at college, and she kept hating it afterwards (and living with Colin really doesn’t count, because… Well… He’s her Colin).

She takes a deep breath and looks up at him, knowing he won’t even have to say anything—she’ll be able to read what he’s thinking from his face. His expression is thoughtful, and though he _is_ frowning, she can tell he’s considering it as a possibility (more than she has anyway), and she’s not sure if she likes that or not.

“That could work,” he says slowly, “It would only be until we get access to my house.”

Emma bites her lip and looks down, pouting a little—part of her hoped that Colin would dismiss the idea just like she had, because she really needs to remind herself not to get attached to Mary-Margret, because no matter how sweet and kind the teacher is, Emma _can’t_ bring herself to trust her.

Colin squeezes her hand softly, drawing her from her thoughts gently. “Love? What do you think?”

Emma sighs and shrugs, “I don’t know. I mean… I’m not really into the whole roommate thing…” Colin shoots her an incredulous look, and she pouts, “Well, you don’t count—you’re… You!” He chuckles and lifts her hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles, “Why don’t you think that one through,” he smirks, “I’ll go see if Granny has any dessert left.”

She watches as he gets up and wanders over to the counter, her eyes trailing down to what must be her favorite part of his body.

She grins and bites her lip; those jeans fit him _really_ well.

“Busted,” Ruby singsongs as she walks up to their table to pick up their dishes, “You’re drooling.” Emma shoots her a glare, but Ruby just grins and continues, “Not like you can be blamed—the man is hot.”

“Yeah, well,” Emma smirks, “I get to touch _and_ look; you’re lucky I let you get a look.”

“Damn, girl,” Ruby grins, “No need to go all cavewoman on me—I’m just stating what every woman, including Granny, knows. Your man’s hot—you should put a ring on that.” Emma chuckles and raises her left hand, wiggling her engagement ring at her, “Already on it.”

Ruby raises an eyebrow and leans in to check the ring. “Damn, that’s one big rock; he’s a keeper. Hey—I’m invited to the bachelorette party, right?” Emma snorts, sipping her hot chocolate to avoid looking at Ruby—she doesn’t want to have a bachelorette party (and she really doesn’t have enough girlfriends to have one either).  “Yeah, I don’t think I’m having one.”

“Oh my God,” Ruby squeals, “You _have_ to have one—saying goodbye to your single days and all! It’s a rite of passage!” Emma rolls her eyes at the far-too-enthusiastic waitress, shaking her head lightly. “Yeah, sorry, but it’s not going to happen, Ruby.”

“What’s not going to happen?” Colin asks smoothly, sliding into the seat next to Emma, pressing a sweet kiss to her cheek. Emma sighs and opens her mouth to respond when Ruby does it for her, squealing, “Her bachelorette party—you’re the fiancé, talk her into it,” the redhead orders sternly, to both Colin’s and Emma’s amusement.

“Well, perhaps that really isn’t such a bad idea, love,” he chuckles, “It certainly sounds like you would be having a good time.”

“Hey,” Emma pouts, “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am,” Colin smirks, “And I always approve of ways to get you drunk and laughing.” She snorts in response, shaking her head before turning to Ruby again, “I’ll take it into consideration. But since we haven’t even set a date yet, I don’t think a bachelorette party is an urgent issue.”

Ruby seems to think that over (as though she actually has a say in it—which, Emma considers, might be the case; she doubts Ruby is going to let the matter go just like that) before nodding, “Okay, good. But this conversation isn’t over.” She narrows her eyes at Emma and nearly growls, “I’ll be seeing you again, Swan.”

Emma just shakes her head, turning back to Colin with a smile. “You never told me what you and the kid were up to all day.”

Colin winks at her, reaching for his drink. “I do believe the lad called it ‘boy things’, love.” She rolls her eyes and snorts again. “That’s not what I meant; it doesn’t tell me what you two were doing.” He chuckles at her grumpy expression and presses a kiss to her cheek again. “We were bonding, love… Boy things, like the lad said.”

She grunts, turning back to her hot chocolate (that isn’t so hot anymore, damn it), and reconsiders Mary-Margret’s offer to crash in her spare room for a few days—because it can’t take that long to get Colin’s house back, right?—as Colin absentmindedly rubs circles on the small of her back. “Okay,” she says softly, “We can ask Mary-Margret if we can stay at her place for a little while, a week, at most—” she turns to glare at her fiancé, “—but no longer than that, okay? We can start shipping our stuff here; but we’re not going to be imposing on her any longer than we absolutely have to, okay?”

He offers her a radiant smile that makes her wants to kiss him and do a lot of inappropriate things to him considering they’re in a public place (it’s really not fair that he can do that to her by just smiling at her), and nods eagerly, “Of course. Whatever you say, love.”

She rolls her eyes at him ( _again_ ), and slides out of the booth, raising an eyebrow at him. “You coming?”

He frowns, taking her proffered hand as he gets to his feet, shrugging on his jacket, “We’re going there now?” Emma nods, pulling her curls from underneath her jacket collar and smiles, “She has a date tonight, so we have to go now if we want to see her before she leaves. And,” she glares, “You are not going to say a word about her date, buddy. No embarrassing our host.”

Colin nods in understanding, taking her hand again as they move towards the exit, before smirking a little, “As you wish, my love.” 


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

**Mary-Margret’s Loft, Storybrooke, Maine  
 _(A few weeks later)_**

Emma wakes to the smell of bacon and pancakes and the sound of laughter in the kitchen, and it takes her a moment to realize where she is. Even after living here for nearly a month, she’s still not used to living with someone other than Colin. The sheets next to her are already cooling, indicating that her fiancé has long since left the bed—which makes her crankier than she feels comfortable admitting—and she sighs when she recognizes his low, deep chuckle drifting through the small loft.

She pouts—number one reason not to like living with a roommate who is not her fiancé; no staying in bed together until it is absolutely scandalous not to be up and dressed yet.

Not that she is not fond of Mary-Margret, or that she doesn’t realize this isgood for them—because she does—she just got used to having Colin all to herself, and she doesn’t play well with others. Sharing Colin’s attention is a test to her patience like she has never faced before.

She’s pleased that they both have steady jobs to keep them busy now—even though her working in closed quarters with Graham for eight hours a day is not at all good for her relationship with Colin—and that Mary-Margret is usually there to act as a buffer at night.

Henry is fully immersed in his Operation Cobra, and even though she and Colin have been… Well, they’re not exactly fighting, but they _are_ having issues. Despite their bad start, Emma does like Graham, and Graham is nice and decent to her when Colin’s not around—and Colin is not at all happy about the budding friendship between them.

Emma’s well aware that Graham _might_ have a teeny little crush on her, but she’s made it very clear that she’s not at all interested, and he’s accepted that, and that’s enough for her.

It’s not for Colin.

Then again—she smirks a little—the fighting causes _a lot_ of really hot make-up sex; she’s got nothing to complain about there.

With a reluctant sigh, she tosses the blankets off and runs her fingers through her messy curls (which _are_ courtesy of Colin’s roaming fingers), picking up Colin’s discarded shirt from the floor and slipping it on while looking around the room.

The room is empty save a wardrobe, the bed and a dresser (and their luggage), but the furniture is all hard, dark wood and the bed has a beautifully carved headboard. She smiles lightly and digs into her bag, coming up with her sweat pants, and pulls them on before heading downstairs.

The boxes with their stuff from Boston are due to arrive any day now, and Gold has assured them that he’s working on getting them access to Colin’s house—Emma’s strangely looking forward to moving into the house, starting the life Colin had talked about (even the prospect of possibly having a baby isn’t as terrifying as it was a few weeks ago).

“Good morning, love,” Colin says when she reaches the final step, leering at her in a way that should be illegal, “Care for some breakfast?”

Emma smiles at Mary-Margret, who’s already pulling on her coat and hat, “Yeah, sure,” she finally responds, sliding onto the stool next to Colin’s, “It smells really good.”

Colin moves to get her a plate, while Mary-Margret looks between them. “Well, I’m off to school,” the teacher smiles, “Emma, I’ll see you at Granny’s for lunch?”

“Yeah,” Emma nods, “Sure. Say hi to Henry for us.”

As soon as the door closes behind Mary-Margret, the atmosphere in the loft changes, and Emma tenses—Colin is leaning against the kitchen island, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes directed at the floor, and Emma hates the uncomfortable, near painful, silence between them. She’d thought that, after last night, they were over their fight—that he’d accepted she was working with Graham and that she liked the man (as a friend).

“Your _Sherriff_ called,” he says slowly, his tone nearly ice-cold, “Asking if you could come in earlier today—he even promised donuts and free drinks if you take the early shift.”

Emma closes her eyes for a brief moment, cursing Graham for leaving a message like that on their voicemail (there’s no way he would say something like that if Colin _had_ picked up the phone), knowing that Colin would hear it, and that he wouldn’t be happy about it.

God, how did she end up in the middle of a childish tug-of-war in which she was the prize?

Not to mention that she had already made the choice to be with Colin a long time ago. Why couldn’t Graham just accept that his crush was doomed to be unrequited?

Men.

“I thought we were past this,” she sighs, running her fingers through her curls tiredly, “Colin…”

He moves forward rather abruptly, and she turns in her seat so he’s facing her, nudging his body between her legs. “Love, how would you have me respond? The man wants you, Emma, and he has always gotten everything he wanted, even it were mine—I do not wish to lose you to him too.”

She sighs heavily and rests her head against his chest. “You won’t. I’m not just going to throw away what we have, Colin. I love you—why isn’t that enough? I don’t care what Graham wants—I _want_ to be with _you_ , not him. Nothing is ever going to happen between him and me unless I want it to, and I _don’t_.”

She looks up, moving to cup his cheeks in her hands, “Why isn’t my word enough?”

His expression is pained and apologetic, and Emma hates that he’s feeling like this because of some stupid feud he and Graham have been neutering since damn high school, but she refuses to let it influence their lives now.

They’re all grown-ups, and they can all bloody well act like it too.

“I try,” he whispers, “I try, but love, seeing the way he looks at you, knowing he will try to sway you from me at some point… It is not you I do not trust.” He raises his hand slowly, his fingers circling her wrist delicately, “Graham has never been rejected before, my love,” he says slowly, “He does not know how to handle it—or how to accept that something cannot be his, even if he wants it.”

Emma sighs, leaning forward to press a kiss to his lips, “I don’t care,” she says when she leans back, “And neither should you. If you must fixate on Graham, fixate on you having something he wants, but that he can never have.” She offers him a small smile—she doesn’t care how petty and childish the tactic might be, if it helps Colin feel better and more confident, she’ll say anything—, “And trust _me_ , okay?”

“Okay,” he sighs, leaning in to kiss her again, “Fine. But I still don’t like him.”

She grins at the defiant tone in his voice and shakes her head, “You don’t have to. You—” she tugs him closer, wrapping her legs around his so he can’t move away, “—just need to give me food and lots of love. Can you do that?”

His lips turn up into a smirk, and he nods slowly, “Aye love, that I can do.”

.

.

.

“Okay,” Emma strides into the Sherriff’s station glaring at Graham, “You know I don’t mind taking the early shift—you know I don’t mind being called out of bed if there’s an emergency.” She crosses her arms over her chest, “But I do not approve of you calling at 5.30 in the morning, leaving a message that you know my fiancé would hear and I most certainly do not appreciate whatever game you think you’re playing.”

Graham leans back in his chair, his eyes a little wide and startled (but she can see the satisfied gleam in his eye), “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble,” he says slowly, something in his tone suggesting that was _exactly_ what he meant to do when he left that voicemail.

“You didn’t,” Emma says coldly, “But you clearly wanted to, so I’m going to tell you this _one more time_ ,” she glares at him, “I like you—as no more than a friend—and I _love_ Colin. I’m going to marry him, and start a life with him, and I don’t care what you think about that. I don’t have any feelings for you, Graham, you need to understand that.”

A tense silence falls in the stationas she continues to glare at him, waiting for her answer.

“Fine,” Graham finally says, “I really didn’t mean to cause any trouble, Emma.” She glares at him for another moment before nodding. “Okay,” she says slowly, “Good. So this ends now—I don’t want to hear any more about this, okay? It’s done now.”

Graham nods and smiles at her, “It is. I’m sorry.”

He’s sincere enough, and Emma nods, appeased for now. “Okay,” she sighs, moving to her desk—pouting at the huge pile of files that have seemingly appeared on it overnight.

They work in silence for a couple of hours, until Graham’s phone rings, snapping them both out of the haze that too much paperwork tends to create. “Hey,” he answers his phone, “Yeah—uh…” He frowns, “I’ve got the night shift, so—yes, but—”

Emma looks at him, feeling slightly amused by his obvious discomfort, and picks another file from the pile while he finishes his phone call. “Hey, Emma,” he frowns, “would you mind taking the night shift tonight? I volunteer at the animal shelter, and someone else just called in sick, so they need me, and—”

Emma chuckles, leaning back in her chair, “Night shifts are _not_ in my contract, buddy.”

“Please,” he pleads, “I’ll owe you one—I can’t just leave them hanging either.”

She grins and nods, “Okay, okay, fine. Just this once—and I get tomorrow off.”

“Deal,” Graham nods enthusiastically, “Thanks, Emma.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she grumbles good-naturedly, fishing her phone from her pocket when it starts buzzing incessantly, “I got a good deal out of it.” She checks the message from Mary-Margret and sighs, before quickly texting Colin—Mary-Margret has decided to have lunch with David instead (she swears, it’s a disaster waiting to happen), and she hopes Colin can get his lunch break earlier, so they can have lunch together instead.

Seconds later, her phone buzzes, and she can’t help but grin at Colin’s response—her wish always was his command.

Her smile sticks to her lips for the rest of the day.

.

.

.

**Mary-Margret’s Loft—that night**

Colin lounges on the bed he shares with Emma, lazily thumbing through a small, old book he has found on Mary-Margret’s bookshelf. Occasionally, he would glance at the clock, sigh and go back to reading. He loathes how much he misses Emma when she spends the night at the station—even though this is the first time she actually has to take the entire nightshift—and how dependent he is on her, but he really does sleep better when she’s next to him.

She keeps the nightmares at bay.

He tosses the book onto the nightstand and drops his head back onto the pillows, his hand fiddling with the chords that tie his sweatpants.

He’s proud of Emma—she’s always wanted to accomplish something real, be a part of law enforcement (though the thought of becoming a police officer never even crossed her mind), and being a bail bondsperson hadn’t been enough.

Being a deputy…

He smiles slightly, remembering the excited smile on her face when she first got her badge. Yes, being a deputy is perfect for her—even if it means she has to work with Humbert.

He supposes she’s right.

Nothing will ever happen between her and Humbert unless _she_ wants it to happen—and he trusts Emma implicitly. He’s decided to try to let it go—to trust his fiancée and to accept that Humbert might make a decent friend and colleague for her.

He’s snapped from his thoughts by the soft sound of the front door opening and closing—he sits up and frowns, moving down the stairs as quietly as he can (in case it’s just Mary-Margret—he’s pretty certain the woman went out again today, after a lunch with David that didn’t appear to have ended very well), when he recognizes the woman unzipping her red leather jacket and tossing it carelessly onto the couch.

“Emma?” He frowns confusedly, “What are you doing home so early?”

She turns on her heel, her eyes wide and startled, before a soft smile flits across her lips. “Hey,” she says softly, “I didn’t think you’d be up… It’s late.”

He closes the remaining distance between them and takes her hand in his, tugging her into his embrace easily. “You know I don’t sleep well without you, love,” he responds, smiling cheekily. “Now why are you so early? I thought you had the entire night shift?”

Emma pouts and rests her head against his chest. “It’s a long story… Can we just go to bed—I’m tired.” He nods, leading her back up the stairs and into the bedroom, silently settling back in their bed as he watches Emma strip and dress in his shirt before she getsinto the bed, crawling closer to him, resting her head on his chest, her arm draped across his waist.

“I don’t think you should really worry about Graham’s little crush,” she whispers, using her free hand to pull his arm around her shoulders, before snuggling closer to him. 

“Why is that?” He questions in an equally soft tone, rubbing his thumb in circles over her shoulder.

Emma snorts and moves her leg between his, moving so she’s lying half on top of him and mutters, “I caught him sneaking out of Regina’s—I told him I didn’t mind taking the night shift for him, but that I didn’t like being lied to so he could take a damned booty call.”

“Really?” Colin snorts, dragging his fingers up and down Emma’s arm, “Humbert and Mills? That is the most disturbing thing I have ever heard.”

Emma snorts a laughs and nods, “I know, right? It’s like the start of a cheap horror movie. The Sherriff and the Mayor.”

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to Emma’s head, “How did the bastard respond when you caught him?”

Emma kisses his bare chest and shrugs, “Embarrassed. I told him to finish his shift and came home.” Colin hums in response, tightening his arms around her. “I’m glad,” he admits softly, “I sleep better when you are with me.”

Emma grumbles under her breath and slaps his chest weakly. “Is that your way of saying I bore you to sleep?”

“No,” he chuckles, “It’s my way of admitting I am hopelessly besotted with you, my love, and am horrendously incapable when you are not near.”

She smirks against his chest and opens her eyes to look into his blue ones (God, his eyes are beautiful), and finds herself unable to look away again (as usual). “I do love it when you go all mushy on me,” she grins, raising her hand to rest against his cheek, her thumb tracing invisible patterns on his skin. “I love you,” she adds.

He shudders involuntarily at her touch.

Her thumb now rests on his lower lip, and her gaze flickers back and forth between his eyes and his lips. A sudden wave of desire washes over him, and before he can talk himself out of it—she’s tired, he’s tired, and they already stayed up to make up for their fighting _all night_ last night, they both need to sleep—her lips are already on his, her hand sliding up to his hair, twisting her fingers in his dark locks, before roughly pulling him closer to her, lying down as she pulls his body on top of hers.

When air becomes a _very_ dire need (if only he were a vampire from one of those silly TV shows Emma made him watch once, so he could kiss her endlessly without having to separate his lips from hers to breathe) he breaks off the kiss, resting his forehead against hers as they both catch their breaths.

“I would love to continue this, love,” he whispers, “But I am too tired.”

She giggles and yawns, nodding along slightly. “I know, me too. Come on.” She pats her chest lightly, and he smiles tiredly as he moves down a little so he can rest his head against Emma’s breast, her arms and legs curling around him almost protectively.

“I love you, Swan,” he mutters, his eyelids drooping slightly.

“Love you too, Brody,” Emma breathes, her eyes drifting shut too.

They’re both asleep in seconds.

.

.

.

**Granny’s Diner, Storybrooke, Maine  
 _(The Next Day—late afternoon)_**

 “Okay,” Emma pouts at Colin, “I still don’t see why I can’t just come with you to get the keys—it’s supposed to be _our_ house, you know.”

He chuckles and slides his arms around her waist, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead, “Allow me to surprise you, love. Gold was not even certain if he could offer me the house already—I’ll see you back at the loft, while you go pick up dinner.”

“Fine,” she pouts, “But we’re going tomorrow—no excuses.”

“Deal,” he smiles, pressing one more kiss to her lips, “Now, go get us dinner while I get us a home.”

She rolls her eyes at him and turns to the Diner’s entrance, shaking her head when he yells, “I love you, Swan,” when he’s across the street.

“You’re an idiot,” she yells back, grinning as she walks into the Diner.

“Hey Ruby,” she smiles (ignoring Graham, who’s standing in the middle of the Diner, glaring daggers at her back), “Can I get two orders of burgers and fries to go?”

“Sure thing,” Ruby chirps, practically skipping to the kitchen.

Emma sighs and, after a few tense minutes, turns on her barstool, facing her boss for the first time since she tackled him on Regina’s front lawn last night. “What’s up, Graham,” she raises an eyebrow, “you’re practically drilling a hole into my head.”

“You avoided me today,” he says in a low, deadpan voice, and Emma shakes her head in desperation. “I had the day off, Graham, that hardly qualifies as avoiding you. Besides,” she narrows her eyes at him, “Why on earth would I be avoiding you?”

He shuffles around uncomfortably, and Emma has to suppress the urge to roll her eyes at him—God, why is he making a thing out of this? He’s a big boy; he’s allowed to sleep around with whoever he wants; he couldbe sleeping with Mary-Margret for all she cares, as long as he wouldn’t hurt her friend.

“Look,” Emma sighs, “I have no interest in having this conversation, Graham. It’s your life, and you’re allowed to do whatever you want with whoever you want to do it with—I really don’t care.”

Thankfully, Ruby interrupts, handing Emma a big plastic bag that smells absolutely delicious (Jesus, she’s hungry). Emma pays quickly and shoots a hesitant smile at Graham. “See you on Monday,” she says, her mind already on everything she and Colin will have to do if they want to move from the loft to their house.

She shakes her head when Graham mutters a little in protest, but otherwise ignores it, and leaves the Diner without looking back.

“If you don’t care—”

 _‘Oh God,’_ she moans internally, stopping dead in her tracks, ‘ _I do not want to do this now_.’

“—why are you so upset?”

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “I’m not upset, Graham—you’re the one who’s making a big deal out of this.”

“If you aren’t upset, why are you not just having a drink with me at the bar, like every Friday night?” He questions sharply, as though _she’s_ the one that’s in the wrong here.

“Because I have plans,” she exclaims, turning around to glare at him, “I’m on my way _home_ , to my fiancé—is that okay with you, _boss_?”

“Can we just talk about this?” Graham pleads, a kind of desperation in his eyes that makes Emma wince—she’s not trying to be mean or cruel, but she really doesn’t care about who he’s sleeping with, and clearly, he needs more than subtle hints to get that.

“Why?” The words fall from her lips with an edge of desperation, “There’s nothing to talk about.” Why is it that he doesn’t seem to understand that she doesn’t care? She’s made it very clear where she stands with him and with Colin, and she really thought he got it too.

Sure, she thinks Graham is hot and attractive—but he’s not Colin.

And Emma loves Colin.

“I don’t know,” Graham exclaims, “Maybe I just want to talk about it to understand it myself.”

“Go talk to Archie if you need an analysis,” Emma offers, checking her watch with a sigh—Colin’s probably already on his way back to the loft and she _really_ wants to be too.

“I want to talk to you, Emma,” Graham whines almost pitifully, “And I know you and Regina have issues, and I didn’t tell you because of that—but there’s also…” He hesitates, raking his fingers through his hair before exclaiming, “I don’t feel anything when I’m with her. Can you understand that?”

Emma sighs and responds, “A bad relationship? Yeah, I understand bad relationships, Graham—but that doesn’t mean I want to talk about yours.”

“I just…” he mutters, “I don’t want you to look at me the way you do now.”

Emma blinks in confusion, staring at him, completely dumbfounded. “Why does it matter how _I_ look at you?” Besides, she really isn’t looking at him in a weird way—he’s single, Regina’s single and they’re in some kind of relationship.

There’s nothing wrong or unethical about it.

The only reservation she has is because she’s not sure how it might affect Henry—and that completely within her rights.

He _is_ her son, after all.

“Because,” Graham whines.

Her phone buzzes in her hand, and she looks down, slightly distracted (and comforted) by Colin’s assurance that he can get the house back, and that Gold needs him to sign a few more papers before handing him the keys.

“What, Graham?” She looks up, to find him standing right in front of her, his hands heavy on her cheeks as he holds her in place when he presses a long, wet, desperate kiss to her lips—she struggles against him, finally managing to get him off of her by kneeing him in the groin, feeling almost sadistically pleased to see him stumble back and groan in pain.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” She yells, wiping her lips with her hand, “What the hell have you been drinking? Jesus Christ—I _just_ told you yesterday that I am in _no way_ interested in you! Which part of ‘no’ is so hard to understand, you pervert?”

“I’m sorry,” he moans, “I had to—I—”

“You _what_?” Emma bellows, “You decided assaulting your deputy was a good idea? I can’t _believe_ I defended you to Colin—he was right all along!”

“No, Emma,” He pleads, moving towards her slowly (she immediately takes a few steps back), “you don’t understand, I just needed to feel _something_.”

“So go to your fucking mistress—girlfriend—whatever she is,” Emma spits, “I don’t know what you’re looking for, but I’m going to say this one more time…” She walks closer, glaring at him with such intensity, she’s almost surprised he doesn’t burst into flames on the spot, “You’re not going to find it with me. This is your last warning, buddy.”

With one last, warning glare, she turns around and stomps down Maine Street, back to the loft, wondering how on earth she’s supposed to explain this to Colin. She’d promised him nothing would happen between her and Graham (even if it was forced on her side), that Graham had accepted their relationship…

She doesn’t _want_ to tell him about this—he’ll be hurt again, and the last thing she wants is for him to be hurt, but he’ll be hurt too if he hears it from someone other than her, and…

She’s just royally fucked.

She enters the empty loft—she doesn’t even question Mary-Margret being out again—and sets the plastic bag with their burgers on the kitchen island, pulling her phone from her pocket again to text Colin back.

Her finger hovers over the ‘SEND’ button when the door behind her opens, and Colin walks in. “Oh hey,” she smiles, relieved to see him, “I was just going to text you again—did everything go okay with Gold?” The look on his face makes her stomach twist and churn uncomfortably, and she approaches him slowly.

“Colin? You okay?”

He looks up at her slowly, something about the look in his eyes almost frightening her. “I _was_ fine,” he says slowly, “I got my house back, I was done early at Gold’s, and I knew you were still at Granny’s—so I walked back in hopes of walking home with my fiancée.”

Her heart sinks, her eyes widening.

_Shit._

He saw.

He saw Graham kissing her and completely misinterpreted the moment.

“Colin,” she starts, her hands raising to touch him of their own accord, “Colin, let me explain.” He jerks away from her touch, his eyes dark with the kind of hurt she never wanted to see in them again, much less _cause_ it to be there in the first place.

“Explain what?” he hisses, and though anger, hurt and betrayal rings clear in his tone, his voice is quiet, calm, and absolutely terrifying. “You _begged_ me to trust you,” he continues, “Promised there was nothing to worry about—and the _second_ I turn my back you’re making out with him _in fucking public_?”

He shouts the final words and she flinches at the unbridled hurt in his voice. “Colin, it wasn’t like that—he kissed me and I pushed him back—I kicked him in the nuts.”

“Right,” Colin sneers, “After kissing him back for two full minutes?”

“I didn’t—” she chokes, but he interrupts her, stomping over to her, “Don’t _lie_ to me, Emma!” He yells, “I was watching—I was _right_ there the whole time!”

“Clearly you weren’t,” she yells back, punching his chest as hard as she can, because as scared as she is of saying the wrong thing, of hurting him and him leaving her, this is absolutely ridiculous and he just needs to _listen_ to her to know it wasn’t like that, “or you would _know_ I was fighting with him—telling him I was going home to _you_ , and that he _forced_ me to kiss him and that I kicked him off of me the second I could!”

“It sure as hell didn’t look forced,” he retorts angrily.

“That’s because you’re just too fucking insecure to _trust_ me,” Emma chokes, taking a step back slowly, her heart clenching painfully.

“Oh, like you have so much room to lecture _me_ about trust issues,” Colin hisses, “It took you five years to even admit that you loved me in the first place—you’re too fucking emotionally stinted to tell anyone you care at all—no wonder they all left you.”

It feels like he’s slapped her—and she can tell he knows he stepped over the line too—and a tear rolls down her cheek. “You should leave,” she whispers, forcing herself to shut down, not care and move the fuck on, “Get out.”

“Emma, I didn’t—” he whispers, his voice soft and scared and full of apology she just _can’t_ take right now.

“No,” she breathes, “Get the fuck out and don’t come back.” She raises her eyes to meet his tortured blue ones and hisses, “Now.”

He lingers for a moment longer before turning and stomping out of the loft, slamming the door shut behind him—Emma flinches at the harsh sound, collapsing onto the couch the very second he’s out the door.

She stares at the door for a long time, barely aware of the tears that are running down her cheeks uninterruptedly, her heart breaking into smaller pieces each time she replays his words in her head—he was out of line, he has no right coming in and accusing her of cheating on him and being emotionally stinted—who the fuck does he think he is?

Her hurt and sadness easily turns into anger and rage, and ten minutes later, she’s absolutely convinced she did the right thing by kicking him out.

She doesn’t need him.

She doesn’t _need_ anyone.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

**The Rabbit Hole, Storybrooke, Maine  
 _(Five days later)_**

It’s been three days.

Three days since he last tried to talk to her.

Three days since he last saw her.

Three days since she threatened him with a restraining order if he dared to come anywhere near her again.

He’s spent most of his time drunk or passed out since then—he hasn’t set foot in their (though he supposes it’s just his now) house; he can’t bear to sleep in the bedroom that was supposed to be theirs, to live in the house he could only imagine living in with Emma.

He’s in the Rabbit Hole again (really the only pub in this town that serves the kind of liquor he needs right now), at the bar, ignoring every other patron while he attempts to drink himself into oblivion again. He’s been thinking about his fight with Emma non-stop since it happened, and though he realizes that he crossed a major line with his last remark (and he has tried to apologize for it, multiple times), he also knows that he’s not the only one to blame.

They both lost their temper.

He tried to talk to Emma the very next morning, but all she did was slam the door in his face. She found him at Granny’s and tossed the crumpled up apology note he’d left her instead at his head, and, when he had finally managed to get her alone, packed up his stuff, pushed them in his arms and told him to leave her the hell alone, if he didn’t want to be slapped with a restraining order.

He hasn’t tried to contact her since.

He _wants_ to, he really does, because he loves Emma, and he wants to make things right with her, but he knows Emma.

He knows her a lot better than she likes to admit.

She needs time to calm down, to reevaluate everything that has happened.

He understands—he needed that time too. The only difference is that he was done thinking about it the next morning; Emma seems to believe that she needs at least two weeks to stop fuming, even though he’s already admitted he was wrong—he really was.

He’s abruptly snapped from his thoughts by a heavy hand falling onto his shoulder, and he turns lazily, shooting a half-smile at David—he and Colin had been drinking and bonding over their issues with the women they love (even though Colin’s pretty sure David’s not ready to admit he loves Mary-Margret just yet) all week.

It’s fast becoming a regular thing.

“Ello mate,” he greets David, “you’re out late… You sure the wife doesn’t mind?”

“Shut up,” David grumbles, sliding onto the seat next to Colin’s, “Why do we need women in our lives?”

Colin chuckles darkly and shakes his head, “Beats me, mate—but let me tell you; if you find that one woman that makes you completely crazy… Never let her go.” David regards him closely for a long moment, before shaking his head a little.

“Man, you’re really drunk right now, aren’t you?”

Colin shrugs and snorts. “Not drunk enough—I am still capable of coherent conversation.”

“Ah,” David grins, “Now that’s something we can remedy right away.” He gestures to the bartender, ordering two more drinks (and orders the man to keep them coming), before turning back to Colin. “So… Any progress with Emma?”

Colin winces, shaking his head. “Not even a bloody inch. How’re things with the wife and Mary-Margret?”

David sighs and shakes his head. “I don’t know, man. What am I supposed to do? I can’t just up and leave my wife.”

“Listen,” Colin glares, “I like Mary-Margret—you better not hurt the lass; she’s a good person, and she deserves better than to be the ‘other woman’ in a relationship.” He ignores David’s protests and continues, “It’s quite simple, mate—do you love Katherine?”

When he sees David’s expression clouds with confusion and hesitation, Colin grumbles and shakes his head, “No—do not say what you’re _supposed_ to feel. Just tell me what you really feel; do you love Katherine? Or do you only remember loving her?” His friend’s expression speaks volumes, and Colin tips his glass towards him. “There you have it—it’s really quite easy. You don’t love your wife; so leave her. You love Mary-Margret, so be with her. Don’t let other people dictate your life for you.”

“Easy for you to say,” David grumbles, “You and Emma are almost as perfect for each other as Snow White and Prince Charming.”

Killian snorts, downing the remainder of his whiskey in one go before getting up from his seat. “Not so much now though,” he says softly, sadly—wishing that he’d be on his way home to Emma instead of an empty house that no longer feels like a home.

David shrugs and smiles, “It wouldn’t be a fairytale if it was all too easy, would it?”

Colin rolls his eyes and slams a twenty dollar bill on the bar, patting David’s shoulder, “That it wouldn’t. I’m done for the night, mate—before I’m too bloody inebriated to walk home in a straight line. Wouldn’t want the Sherriff to arrest me.” His voice is thick and laden with sarcasm, and David chuckles in response.

“You’re sure you’ll be okay walking home?” David inquires slowly, “You did drink a lot.”

Killian snorts and shakes his head. “However touching your concern is, I’ll be fine; it’s not that far.” He raises his hand in greeting at David one more time before stepping out into the cold February night.

He pulls up his jacket’s collar and pushes his good hand deep into his pockets, sinking into his thoughts once again. He has given Emma three days—and he will give her a few more—but he needs to start thinking about how to go about talking to her.

How to apologize to her.

He wants to save their relationship (and he knows that deep down, she does too) but they need to talk—seriously talk—about all the things they have left unsaid over the years.

And he cannot do that unless Emma wants to.

His phone suddenly buzzes in his pocket, and he struggles slightly to get it out, his eyes widening as he sees Emma’s name and picture flash on the screen—she’s calling him.

Emma’s calling him.

He slides his finger over the screen to answer the call, but before he can get a word out, his attention is snagged by the loud blaring of a car horn that makes him jump—and he only just manages to look up into two bright, yellow headlights, before the car hits him with incredible speed, sending him flying—he doesn’t even think about containing his cry of pain as he feels multiple bones snap at the collision, nor when he lands hard on the road with a sickening smack, his head bouncing against the stone.

 _‘Emma_ ,’ he thinks, before everything starting darkening, his consciousness slipping away faster than he can comprehend.

“Emma,” he breathes, unable to keep his eyes open anymore, his fingers faintly scratching over the asphalt, trying to get to his phone. He thinks of nothing more when he felt as though cold envelops him like a thick blanket when he finally closes his eyes and wheezes out the deep breath he’d been holding.

And then all goes black.

.

.

.

Emma stomps down the stairs with a heavy sigh, freezing on the bottom step as she spots the _huge_ bouquet of flowers on the table. She closes her eyes for the briefest moment, clenching her jaw tightly, before stomping forward and grabbing the flowers, moving to toss them in the trash—she _really_ doesn’t want to think about this now; it’s been a long day, she has to share the night shift with Graham and she is exhausted (she’s barely been sleeping) and the last thing she needs right now is a stupid idiot who thinks he can just make up for everything by sending her flowers.

She knows they’re not from Colin ( _if_ he sends her flowers, he sends buttercups, and he usually knows better than to send her flowers), which can only mean they’re from Graham, who’s been going out of his way to try to stay on her good side—even though she very obviously doesn’t have one right now.

She’s still second-guessing her decision not to file harassment charges against him, but in the end, the reason not to still remains the same; she just doesn’t want to deal with the hassle she knows it’d cause.

“Oh, no, no, wait,” Mary-Margret squeals behind her as Emma drops the bouquet in the trashcan. Emma turns and rolls her eyes at the teacher, “If Graham thinks flowers will work on me…” She stomps back over to the couch, checking her watch to see how long she has before she needs to take over the night shift.

“But those were mine,” Mary-Margret trails off, frowning slightly.

“Oh,” Emma frowns in response, “From David?”

Mary-Margret bites her lip coyly and shakes her head, “God, no… From doctor Whale.”

“Why would doctor Whale send—” Emma breaks off when she catches the look Mary-Margret is giving her, and she blanches completely at the implications. “Are you serious?” She stares at Mary-Margret, who she didn’t really look at as more than a demure teacher (though she supposes _that_ view of her is all wrong).

“I know,” Mary-Margret groans, “It’s a disaster.”

“No,” Emma manages to choke, “It’s amazing—you’re getting over David. That’s a good thing.”

Mary-Margret wrinkles her nose a little and shakes her head, “First of all, there’s nothing to get over—” Emma wants to call bullshit on that one, but she guesses she can let Mary-Margret have that ridiculous idea if it helps her move on, “—and second of all,” Mary-Margret continues, “it’s just a one nightstand.”

Emma chortles and leans her head back against the couch cushion, “Yeah, not according to those flowers.”

“Yeah, speaking of which,” Mary-Margret raises an eyebrow, “Why did you think they were from Graham?”

Emma shifts uncomfortably, shrugging a little, “Because Colin knows better than to send me lame apology flowers—and even if he did,” she winces a little, because she’s been trying her hardest not to think about her…

Her…

Well, whatever the hell he is right now.

“—he would’ve sent buttercups,” she finishes, “Not a bouquet.”

She misses the look that Mary-Margret gives her, her eyes locked on the engagement ring on her left hand. She hasn’t taken it off yet—it doesn’t matter how many times she tells herself that she needs to, and that she and Colin are over, and that she doesn’t love him; she just can’t bring herself to take off the ring.

It feels too final.

“Have you talked to him?” Mary-Margret asks slowly, carefully, as she takes a seat on the couch next to Emma, “Because I saw him at Granny’s today and he…” she winces, “Well, he didn’t look very good.”

“Why would I want to talk to him?” Emma bristles, glaring at her roommate in disdain.

Mary-Margret shakes her head and sighs, “There’s that wall again, Emma.” Emma just stares ahead stubbornly, not bothering to respond. “Emma,” Mary-Margret sighs, “This is never going to get better if you don’t talk to him.”

“I have nothing to say to him,” Emma says slowly, sounding cold and detached. And she doesn’t. She really doesn’t have anything to say to Colin, because if she _does_ , and if she _does_ think about something to say to him, she’ll break and fall right back into his arms and she just _can’t_ do that. He’d been a jackass for no good reason and she won’t just let him get away with it.

“So you’re just going to end a five-year-relationship over _one_ fight based on a misunderstanding?” Mary-Margret shakes her head and continues, “I know you don’t want to hear this… But I think Colin may have had a point. Not that he was right—” she hastily continues when Emma turns to stare at her with unbridled hurt in her eyes, “—but Emma, that wall of yours… It might keep out pain, but right now… It’s keeping out love too.”

“Colin’s the one who freaked out over nothing,” Emma says defensively, her fingers clenching together in her lap, the metal of her engagement ring cold against the rest over her fingers.

“Emma, he saw another man kiss you—not just any other man, but Graham.  How should he have responded?” Mary-Margret says reasonably.

“Well, he should have listened to me instead of jumping to conclusions,” Emma hisses, tears stinging in her eyes at the memory of his harsh words.

“Would you have?” Mary-Margret raises an eyebrow, “What would you have done if you saw someone else kissing him?” With that, Mary-Margret gets up and smiles at Emma, patting her shoulder soothingly, “Think about that.”

Emma just stares after her when the teacher walks back towards her bedroom, Mary-Margret’s words repeating themselves over and over again in her head.

_‘What would you have done if you saw someone else kissing him?’_

What _would_ she have done?

She tries to remember what she said to Colin the last time she saw him, three days ago, but all she really remembers is being angry at Graham and _too_ raw and emotional to deal with Colin trying to apologize, and it was just so much easier to give him his share of the boxes that arrived from Boston and to tell him to get out and to not come back because she just _couldn’t_ deal with being so vulnerable with him.

She hasn’t seen him since that day (she _is_ slightly ashamed of herself for how she treated him) and she supposes she does owe it to both of them to try to talk about it.

To work it out.

Mary-Margret’s right—she can’t throw away their entire relationship over one stupid fight.

She picks up her phone from the small coffee table, spinning it between her fingers for a moment before unlocking it and scrolling through her contact list until she finds Colin’s name, her finger hovering over the call-button for a split-second before she tells herself to man up and just do it.

She presses ‘Call’, and listens to the phone ringing for a long time before it’s answered—but the only thing she hears is the violent screech over crunching metal, shattering glass and a bloodcurdling cry of pain; she recognizes Colin’s voice, and her blood freezes in her veins. “Colin?” She exclaims, her fingers tightening on the phone, “Colin! Answer me! Colin!”

Mary-Margret strolls back into the living room, staring at Emma, who’s running around the room in a frenzy, hopping on one leg to pull on her boots, one arm into her jacket, her phone still pressed between her ear and her shoulder. “Emma? What’s going on?”

Emma doesn’t respond, simply hanging up the phone and staring at it for a full twenty seconds as she tries to process what she _knows_ just happened.

It just can’t be real—it can’t.

The words she overheard from people who came to the scene after a few seconds are haunting her, taking away her ability to think—to breathe.

_‘I don’t feel a pulse—this isn’t looking good—I think he’s dead.’_

Her breathing is ragged and heavy, and she knows she can’t go out like this—she’s frenzied and her hands are shaking, and if she gets in her car right now, she’ll probably end up in an accident herself, and she can’t be of any use to Colin if she lands herself in the hospital.

She refuses to believe the words she caught over the phone—she can’t believe them.

If she does, she’ll break, because he’d have died thinking she hated him and she’d never have gotten the chance to tell him she’s sorry too and she _needs_ to, because she does love him, and she’s never going to stop, and this _can’t_ be the end.

She just refuses to believe that this is the end.

“Emma?”

Mary-Margret’s voice snaps her from her thoughts, and she forces herself to calm down; she needs to be rational and calm.

She shivers and shakes her head. “I think,” she croaks, “I think Colin was in an accident—I’m going to the hospital now—can you… Can you call Graham and tell him I won’t be taking the rest of the night shift tonight? He owes me anyway.”

“Yes, of course,” Mary-Margret nods, looking quite stricken herself, “Be careful, and call me, okay?”

Emma nods distractedly, closing her eyes with her hand resting on the doorknob.

‘ _Please,’_ she begs, ‘ _Please don’t let it be him. Please, let him be okay.’_

.

.

.

Emma pulls up in the parking lot of the hospital, almost not taking the time to yank her keys from the contact before she sprints inside, slamming her hands down on the counter, startling the nurse sitting behind it.

“Oh, Deputy Swan. What are you doing here?” She forces herself to swallow and breathe in before she said, “The car accident—there was a car accident, right? I was on the phone with him when it happened—is he okay?”

“Oh,” the nurse’s face falls slightly, “Maybe you should sit…” Emma’s heart stutters at her careful words, and she nearly chokes as she whispers, “Is he—how is he?”

The nurse bites her lip and looks down hesitantly, whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m not allowed to give you that information unless you’re family, so…”

“Family?” Emma echoes incredulously, “Are you fucking kidding me? I’m his fiancée—how is that not family?”

The nurse’s eyes widen in confusion, and she looks down at the papers on her desk. “Oh—you mean Colin Brody… Of course.” She shuffles through the papers while Emma stares at her.

“Of course I was talking about Colin,” Emma exclaims, “Who else would I be asking for?”

“Oh, well,” the nurse stutters, her cheeks flushing, “it’s just… There were two people brought in tonight, your fiancé and the Sherriff, and—”

“Woah, hold up,” Emma shakes her head, “Graham’s here too? What happened to him?”

“Uh, well,” the nurse says slowly, “It looks like… he was the driver.”

Emma blanches, her mind whirring as she tries to process everything she’d learned in the past few hours, “Okay,” she chokes, “How are they—are they okay?”

“Well,” the nurse starts, “it looks like Colin will be fine—he has a few broken bones and a pretty bad concussion, so he’ll need to stay for a few days…” She trails off when Emma exhales in relief, closing her eyes to push back hot, burning tears of relief.

“What about Graham?” Emma inquires when she’s gotten hold of herself again.

“I’m sorry, Miss Swan,” the nurse fidgets, “I’m not allowed to tell you that.”

Emma closes her eyes and takes a deep, calming breath, before nodding. “Fine,” she hisses, “Can I see Colin?”

“Of course,” the nurse nods, “He’s in room 305, I think Doctor Whale might still be with him.”

“Good,” Emma swallows thickly and forces herself to walk through the corridors calmly—Colin’s okay.

He’s going to be okay.

.

.

.

**Colin’s hospital room, Storybrooke Hospital  
 _(A few hours later)_**

Emma yawns deeply as she settles in the chair next to Colin’s bed again, trying to avoid looking at him—looking at him made it so _real_.

So terrifying.

She hates looking at him in the hospital bed; he looks so small, so fragile in it, and she absolutely hates how broken he looks. She knows he’ll be okay, but he looks horrible and he hasn’t woken up since she came into the room three hours ago, but Whale had told her that was normal.

He’d probably be sleeping through the night and maybe even most of tomorrow.

Finally, she manages to gather her courage and raises her gaze to her unconscious fiancé on the bed. She tries to suppress the sob that falls from her lips as her eyes take in his black and purple bruised skin, the cast that covers his wrist and hand, the heart monitor clipped to his finger, the bandages that cover his chest, peeking from underneath the hospital gown, the IV stuck to his left arm and the oxygen mask that covers most of his face.

The only thing that appeases her slightly is the gentle rise and fall of his chest. She leans up, rests her hand on his stump softly, stroking the surprisingly soft skin there—ever mindful of the IV—as she wishes for the millionth time that he’d wake up already, even though she knows he needs this; he needs to rest so he can heal.

She watches him for long moments, breathing in when Colin does, keeping an eye on the heart monitor. Somehow, the steady beep is reassuring. She strokes a stray lock of dark hair from his forehead and smiles softly.

Even now, covered in cuts and bruises, he’s too handsome for his own good.

“I love you,” she whispers, tightening her fingers around his stump, “I’m sorry.”

Shedoesn’t turn around when she hears the door click open. Instead, she waits as Mary-Margret moves around the bed to the other chair, and sits down in it.

“Any change?” Mary-Margret asks softly.

Emma bites her lip, not taking her eyes from Colin, and shakes her head. “No. Nothing. But Whale said that’s normal—his body’s still in a state of shock; he’ll probably wake up sometime tomorrow.”

Mary-Margret nods slowly, her eyes downcast, and for the first time, Emma notices how pale she is. “Hey,” Emma frowns, “Are you okay?”

Mary-Margret takes a deep breath and bites her lip as she looks up at Emma. “You remember Graham was in the accident too?” she asks slowly.

Emma’s eyes narrow angrily, and she looks back down at Colin, wincing once again as she catches sight of Colin’s numerous injuries, “Yes,” she barks shortly, “I remember—I’m going to kick his ass for this when he gets discharged.”

“Emma,” Mary-Margret winces, “I—Graham’s dead.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

**Colin’s hospital room, Storybrooke hospital  
 _(Two days later)_**

Colin winces when Whale prods his broken wrist carefully, turning it over slightly to examine it a little more closely.

“It looks like the cast will be able to be taken off in a few weeks,” the doctor finally concludes with a soft smile, “It wasn’t a complicated break, and we were able to set it relatively quickly—so give it four to six weeks max, and you’ll be as good as new.”

Colin nods and shifts, wincing at the strain the move puts on his bruised and broken ribs.

Whale notices the grimace on his face and manages a sympathetic smile (Colin still thinks the man’s a douche, despite his effort of putting on good bedside manners). “Ah, yes,” he frowns, “You do have two broken ribs and three severely bruised ribs though, which will take a little longer to heal—you’ll have to take it easy for a while; eight weeks at least.”

Colin sighs and leans his head back against the pillows. “Alright. Has Emma been by yet?” He glances at the doctor hopefully, knowing that the man prohibited anyone from visiting him since he woke up, because there were a whole lot of tests that had to be done, but he’s more than a little eager to see his lovely Swan—he knows she stayed with him all night when he was out, but Whale made her leave when he woke up, despite their protests.

He’s not foolish enough to believe that everything will simply be all dandy now—but he does have hope that Emma will be willing to talk to him.

After all, even though he’s a little foggy on the details, she _did_ call him, did she not?

Before he got hit by the car?

Doctor Whale offers him a small smile and shakes his head. “No, I believe she was called away on an emergency—after all, having to run the Sherriff’s station by herself must be a lot of work.”

Colin blanches, feeling as though he’s missing a crucial piece of information, and frowns at his doctor. “By herself? Where the bloody hell is Humbert?”

Whale opens his mouth to respond, his forehead rippled into a frown when Emma’s voice rings from the door.

“Graham’s…” She hesitates, walking into the room slowly, and Colin drinks her in, noting with slight dissatisfaction that she looks tired, and worn, and it’s not a look he likes on her, “Graham was the driver that hit you,” she finishes, and it takes Colin a long moment to process what that means.

He doesn’t notice Whale slinking out of the room, leaving him and Emma alone, and exclaims, “I bloody well hope the bastard broke some bones too—incorrigible asshole.”

Emma winces a little, settling on the chair right next to his bed, pushing her messy curls from her face. “Colin, Graham… He… He had a heart attack while driving—he wasn’t conscious when he hit you; probably never even knew what happened. He died before the ambulance got there.”

Colin stares at her, waiting for her to tell him she’s joking—that she’s pulling a very bad, tasteless prank on him—but she just stares back at him, her eyes filled with a kind of torn sadness he recognizes all too well. “Bloody hell,” he curses under his breath, collapsing back onto the pillows, “ _bloody buggering hell_ ,” he looks back at her, “He’s _dead_?”

“Yeah,” Emma chokes, shaking her head, “I know, it’s surreal. I mean, I was mad at him, but I didn’t want him dead…”

“Aye,” Colin breathes, staring up at the ceiling blankly, “Me either. I didn’t like the man, but…” He trails off and swallows thickly.

Graham’s dead.

It feels completely ridiculous—he’s not able to grasp it.  

They sit in silence for a few long, tense, minutes, before Colin rolls his head to the side, studying his beautiful (but obviously very tired) Swan. “I missed you,” he says softly, “I am sorry for what I said, love.”

Her green eyes are wide and beautiful and filled with a startling amount of love and regret. “I know,” she whispers, “I’m sorry too.”

His eyes widen and he frowns, shaking his head, “No, love, you have nothing—”

“But I do,” she interrupts, moving so she can touch him, her fingers leaving a burning trail on his skin, “I do—you were right. I was too scared to say ‘I love you’. I was terrified of letting you, or anyone, in completely because every time I did before, they left me. And I know—I’ve always known—that you wouldn’t but…” She bites her lip and shrugs helplessly, stroking his cheek softly as he stares at her, completely speechless, “I was scared,” she finishes, “I _am_ scared. But you’re right, it’s not fair—we can’t really be together if I don’t give as much as you do.”

“Emma,” he breathes, completely floored by her little speech (she’s not usually this vocal and he has _no_ idea what she wants him to say), trying to raise his hand to touch hers, before remembering his wrist is broken, and cursing under his breath.

Emma smiles sadly, shaking her head, “No, don’t move, you’ll hurt yourself. I was just trying to say that we were both wrong—you overreacted, but I did too. I would’ve freaked out too if I saw someone else kiss you. I shouldn’t have kicked you out. So,” she takes a deep breath and smiles sheepishly, “I’m sorry.”

“Lay with me,” Colin smiles softly, attempting to gather his wits so he can give her a declaration like she just gave him, “Don’t protest, Swan,” he adds when she opens her mouth to argue, “You know you want to, love.”

She glares at him, but kicks off her shoes and crawls onto the bed with him, breathing in deeply and snuggling close to him, ever so careful not to lean on his bruised and broken ribs—she needs to be in his arms for this conversation; she needs to know he doesn’t hate her.

That she didn’t wait too long, or pushed him too far.

Almost as though he has a direct line to her thoughts, he pulls her closer, pressing his lips to her forehead, whispering that he’s sorry for doubting her, that he loves her, that he will never leave her—not if ever given the choice.

The tears that have been burning in her eyes since the last time they talked suddenly pour down her cheeks, and before she can register _why_ she’s crying, she’s sinking into his comforting embrace, accepting the strength it offers her as she sobs uncontrollably, for once allowing herself to feel the absolute terror she’s felt at the mere thought of losing Colin. She isn’t afraid he’ll leave—not anymore—not with the way he’s holding her, comforting her; as though she’s the most precious treasure he’s ever held.

“I almost lost you,” she cries, curling her fingers in his hospital gown, “You could’ve _died_ and we would never have been able to make up and it would’ve been _my_ fault.”

“No,” Colin hushes her, rocking her gently, “Don’t think like that, love. I’m here—I’m right here and we’re both just fine. And I love you, Swan—you’ll have to push a lot harder to get rid of me.”

She looks up at him with a sad smile, tears still drying on her cheeks. “I don’t think I deserve you.”

“I think you may have gotten that the wrong way around,” he smiles, “I’m the one undeserving of your love—but I am selfish enough to keep it and demand it after all.”

“Good,” Emma chokes, a real, genuine smile spreading across her lips. “I’d miss you too much if you wouldn’t.” He chuckles, and she smiles as she rests her head back against his chest carefully, closing her eyes and reassuring herself by listening to the steady thudding of his heartbeat.

“I dreamed of you,” he whispers, pressing his lips to her hair, “Every night.”

She smiles a little, stroking her fingers over his chest. “Good dreams, I hope,” she replies softly.

“Aye,” he hums, “Though I do believe I should stop listening to Henry’s stories so much… We were almost in a true fairytale.”

Emma grins, trying to picture it, but fails hopelessly. “Tell me,” she says softly, propping her chin up in her hand, so she can look at him. “If we were a fairytale, what would we be like?” She smiles at the playful glint in his eye and bites her lip.

“Hmm,” he muses, “I saved you from drowning—and we fell in love… Got married.” His expression turns wistful and he continues, “I dreamed you told me you were pregnant…” He shakes his head, “It was the oddest thing… We were in a market place, and you told me,” his smile is _beautiful_ , and it makes her heart stutter, “and I just couldn’t believe it. It felt surreal and I was so happy—you cried when I told our baby that I loved him… And then scolded me for sitting on my knees in the middle of a dirty market place.”

Emma chuckles, leaning up to press the softest kiss to his lips, “That does sound like a fairytale.”

“Do you think we could ever have that?”

His question is voiced so softly and vulnerably that it makes Emma ache, and she pouts a little.

“Well,” she starts, “We could start by getting married… Soon.”

“You would still want to?”

He looks surprised, and she honestly doesn’t understand why, she basically just told him she loves him too much to ever even contemplate not being together anymore, and he wonders if she still wants to be his wife?

“Of course I still want to marry you, you dimwit,” she scolds him, “And I—” she breaks off and takes a deep breath, “I want to get married as soon as you’re out of that cast. I don’t want to wait.”

His eyes are wide and disbelieving and suddenly, he turns his head to the side, narrowing his eyes at the IV stand.

“What are they giving me? I think I’m hallucinating.”

She snorts a laugh and slaps his chest (he moans painfully, and she soothes him quickly, apologizing with quick, sweet kisses all over his face while he pretends to fight her off), grumbling, “I’ll stop being nice then.”

“No, no, no,” he laughs, wincing because of his ribs, “Please, I love you when you’re sweet, my darling  Swan. I was simply—” he shrugs and whispers, “I was surprised. You know I would get married to you right now if I could.”

She _does_ know that, but it’s comforting to hear anyway, and she presses a kiss to his chest as he continues, “I would love to marry you whenever you want, darling. Why the change of heart, though?”

She bites her lip and shrugs. “Graham _died_ … _You_ could have died… I didn’t realize how much time we’ve been wasting with waiting until the perfect moment, when…” she smiles sheepishly, “…when all I need for it to be perfect is you and Henry.”

“I love you,” Colin breathes, “all I need is you.”

She leans up to press a kiss to his lips, before snuggling back into his arms, closing her eyes briefly.

Colin grins and presses a kiss to her messy curls. “Try to sleep some, Emma. You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

She grumbles under her breath, but doesn’t bother to respond, just snuggling deeper into his embrace, her eyes drifting shut already. “Hey Colin,” she mumbles right before she falls asleep, “I love you.”

She doesn’t hear his chuckle, nor his answering, “As I you, my darling Swan.”

.

.

.

**Storybrooke beach, Storybrooke, Maine  
 _(A week and a half later)_**

Emma fidgets nervously, looking down at the two walkie-talkies she’s holding, trudging down the beach to Henry’s castle. She hasn’t talked to him since Graham’s funeral—she’d been busy setting up the house, moving out of Mary-Margret’s loft, visiting Colin at the hospital (Whale had been concerned about some of the internal injuries he’d sustained in the accident—she hadn’t even known about those—and wanted to keep him in observation for a few more days) and trying to manage the Sheriff’s station by herself.

She can see Henry sitting on the castle, and not for the first time, she winces at the sight of how _lonely_ her eleven-year-old son looks—and she once again questions her decision to give him up when he was a baby.

She’d been so sure back then that she couldn’t take of him… But she’d met Colin a few years after she got out and she’d been pretty good by then too—maybe she _could_ have taken care of him.

They could have been happy.

She sighs and climbs onto the castle, forcing a smile on her lips for Henry’s sake. “Hey kid,” she greets him cheerily, “Look what I got.” She hands him one of the walkie-talkies and sits down next to him. “I thought we could use them for Operation Cobra.”

“I think we should stop with Operation Cobra for a while,” Henry says quietly, “You don’t play with the Curse. Look at what happened to Graham—and Colin.”

Emma winces again—only at the reminder of how Colin looked in those first few hours after the accident. “Kid, I told you,” she sighs softly, “Colin is going to be fine. And Graham—there was an autopsy—totally natural causes.”

“And it’s supposed to be a coincidence that he hit _Colin_ of all people?”

“It was—” she hesitates, “It _was_ an accident—there’s nothing more to it, Henry.”

“Okay, whatever. You don’t believe,” Henry takes a deep breath and nods to himself. “Good. That should keep you from messing with it—and getting killed.”

Emma’s heart squeezes at the resigned, sad note in Henry’s voice; he’s losing that sweet, innocent smile that she’d come to love so much already, and she absolutely _hates_ that. She hates that it’s worry for _her_ life and her safety that makes him feel like this.

“You’re worried about me?”

The words fall from her lips before she can stop them, and she feels a little stupid for sounding so incredulous, but she really couldn’t help herself.

“She killed Graham because he was good,” Henry exclaims, “and you’re good—she tried to kill Colin along with Graham because she knows you’d be devastated—”

“Henry—” she tries to interrupt, to tell him otherwise, to tell him that she loves him, but that he’s being ridiculous, but he just won’t let her finish.

“No,” he shakes his head, gesturing wildly, “This is why good always loses. Good has to play fair; evil doesn’t. And she is evil—so it’s probably best.” He sighs deeply and looks down at his hands, “Don’t want to upset her more.”

Emma sits silently, unsure of what to say to console him, watching her son get up quietly, dropping the walkie-talkie back into her lap before he walks away. She swallows thickly, staring down at the two walkie-talkies in her lap, wondering how things progressed to this point.

She groans softly and leans against the wooden pole next to her, closing her eyes briefly.  Sometimes she really wishes that she and Colin are back in Boston, in their apartment—they’d had everything  figured out before Henry showed up on their doorstep; they’d been fine on their own.

She hasn’t needed anyone but Colin in years, and it scares her a little how easily she and Colin have made friends here, started a life—a life they were supposed to start back in Boston. And now her son is suffering, her fiancé is in the hospital, and there’s a chance she might not even be Deputy (or Sheriff) anymore because Regina has decided she has some kind of personal vendetta against her because she wants to make sure Henry’s okay—her life is one big, fucked up mess.

And Henry—her son, her sweet, _sweet_ boy…

She’s trying so hard to be a good mother-figure (though she’s not trying to replace Regina in any way) and everything is just so messed up.

She’s a crap mother.

Maybe leaving Storybrooke and leaving Henry with Regina isn’t such a bad idea after all.

“Hello love.”

She jumps violently, swirling around to glare at her fiancé, before it registers that her _fiancé_ (who should be _in_ the hospital) is standing behind her.

“Colin!” She exclaims, “What—how—you should be in the hospital, you lunatic! What are you doing here?” She scrambles to her feet and runs towards him, pressing her hand to his ribs softly—she knows he’s been pretending that they don’t bother him as much as they do—examining him closely.

He’s a little pale and he grimaces when she presses her hand to his ribs, his hand (and cast) coming up to cover hers, his fingers twitching against hers. “Darling, I’m fine.”

“What are you doing here?” She frowns at him, “I thought Whale wanted to keep you a little longer?”

He shakes his head and leans in to kiss her forehead, “He cleared me a few hours ago—I was allowed to leave; I knew you were coming here to see the lad and I thought I’d join.” He frowns a little and looks around, “Where is the lad anyway?”

Emma looks down uncomfortably, and sighs, “He already left. He’s convinced that Regina’s somehow behind Graham’s heart attack and the accident,” she leans forward and rests her head against his shoulder, “And he’s scared… God, I just don’t know what to say to him to make him feel better.”

He slides his arms around her, one around her shoulders and one around her waist, and she sinks into his arms gratefully.

She’s never going to admit this, but she missed being in his arms.

“It’s a traumatic thing, love,” Colin starts slowly, “Losing a loved one… Or even someone you simply know. Henry deals with everything by regaling it to a fairytale… Perhaps we should mention this to Archie. I believe he would know how to help the lad.”

She considers that for a moment, and then nods, though the uncomfortable, sick knot in the pit of her stomach doesn’t loosen. “Okay,” she sighs, sliding her hands down his back, into his back pockets, “that _does_ sound like a good idea.”

She can feel him smile against her forehead, before pressing another kiss to her forehead. “Shall we return home, darling?”

She grins, nodding eagerly. “Yeah… Sounds good, doesn’t it? Home?” She leans back so she can look at him, “Mary-Margret helped me move everything… We’re officially moved in.” She smiles at the look of wonder and longing on his face—she’s sure she had looked the same when she and Mary-Margret had moved the last box into the house.

“Aye,” he nods slowly, “It does… Let’s go home, love.”

She nods, tucking herself into his side, his arm slung over her shoulder, her hand in his back pocket. “Home it is.”   



	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen**

**February 13 th, 2012—The Rabbit Hole, Storybrooke   
( _Nine weeks later)_**

“Oh God,” Emma moans, burying her head in her hands, “Why did I let you talk me into to this?”

Ruby squeals and claps her hands. “Because it’s your bachelorette party, and you _need_ this last night of freedom before you let Colin shackle you down in a boring, domestic, married life!”

Mary-Margret nearly chokes on her wine and Ashley (a friend of Ruby’s who tagged along) tries—and fails—to hide her giggles behind her beer bottle, and Emma’s thoughts drift to her fiancé. Things are, somewhat surprisingly, good now.

Colin’s fully recovered from the accident—though he does still walk with a slight limp if he works out too much (he started a few weeks after the accident, claiming he was getting fat from sitting around and doing nothing)—and things with Regina are … Settling.

Henry had pleaded and pleaded with Regina to just give him the chance to get to know Emma, and promised her that it didn’t mean he wanted to replace her—he just wants to know both his mothers (he wisely kept quiet about the whole Operation Cobra thing)—and surprisingly, Regina (albeit reluctantly) agreed to let him spend one weekend every two weeks with her and Colin, and a dinner at Granny’s once a week.

It’s a good arrangement, and Emma’s glad that she’s getting the chance to know her son.

She’s pretty sure Mary-Margret and David are seeing each other too, but Colin insists David hasn’t been telling him anything, and Mary-Margret refuses to talk about it—so she’s dropped it. She’s sure Mary-Margret will talk to her about it when she’s ready and wants to.

After all, Emma winces, it’s not like she was ever one for sharing.

All in all, her life’s been pretty damn perfect lately, and though a small part of her is still waiting for the other shoe to drop (she has no doubt it will happen at some point), she’s honestly _happy._

She and Colin set the date for their wedding three weeks ago—spent a lot of time convincing Storybrooke residents that _no_ , Emma isn’t pregnant, and _no_ , it’s not a shotgun wedding, since they were already engaged before they came to Storybrooke.

Granted, they’d been engaged for only a few hours before coming here, but still.

And it’s so close now. They’re so close—only a few more days…

Three days and she’ll be Colin’s wife.

She’ll be someone’s wife.

Now there’s something she never thought would happen.

She downs another shot and grins at Ruby.

“I don’t mind being shackled down by Colin,” she winks at Ruby, grinning when Mary-Margret flushes bright red (she glances down at her glass right after, trying to remember how much she’s already had to blurt something like that).

Ruby squeals and claps her hands excitedly, “Girl, more details! You have managed to snatch the _hottest_ guy this town ever had—and no one even knows how you did it—spill, Emma.”  

“There’s nothing to tell,” Emma exclaims exasperatedly, “You already know how we met.”

“But that wasn’t exciting _at all_ ,” Ruby pouts, “You met at _Starbucks_ —that doesn’t make for an interesting story, does it?”

Emma rolls her eyes at Ruby’s youthful exuberance and exchanges a quick smile with a blushing Mary-Margret. “You sound like Henry,” Emma shakes her head exasperatedly, “This is real life, not a fairytale.”

“But you _are_ getting married,” Ashley points out, smiling sweetly, “so it has to be somewhat fairytale-like. True Love and all that, you know?”

“Okay,” Emma drawls, shifting uncomfortably in her seat, “That’s enough sentimental chitchat, I thought this was my last night of freedom? Where’s the booze and the hot strippers, guys?” She mock-pouts at Ruby and whines, “I’m so disappointed in you, Rubes.”

“Well,” Ruby grins, “The booze is right here,” she wiggles the bottle of tequila in front of Emma’s face, “and sadly, Storybrooke houses a lot of things, but a stripper joint isn’t one of them.” She’s actually pouting and Emma believes her wholeheartedly when Ruby promises her she’s looked (she doesn’t _actually_ want strippers, but Ruby’s the one insisting on making this a real bachelorette party…)

She almost expected her to pull out all the stops and bring in strippers from Vegas if she had to.

“No strippers,” Ashley giggles, “ _But_ we do have           a to-do-list for you!” The three girls all laugh at Emma’s incredulous expression, and Mary-Margret pats her shoulder as Ruby produces a plastic bag from her purse.

Emma eyes the bag warily and groans, “Ruby… Really?” God, she really wishes she hadn’t stopped their sentimental talk now; she’s sure that it would have been less uncomfortable than whatever’s in that bag.

Ruby holds up her hand and shakes her head, refusing to let Emma protest, “Nah-uh. You gave me free reign over the party, so now you have the bear the consequences!”

Emma groans and rests her head on the table, moaning, “I’m not drunk enough for this.”

“That’s okay,” Ruby smirks, “We’ll get you there. First, you need to wear this,” she hands Emma a bundle that looks suspiciously like new clothes, “and then, you get to read the to-do-list.”

“Do I really have to?” Emma pouts, “I’m the Sherriff now—I’m supposed to be responsible and all.”

“Pssh,” Ruby rolls her eyes, “Everyone deserves a night off, and besides, I’ll force you to put those on if you try to refuse.”

Emma glares at Ruby, refusing to back down (or at least to just roll over and accept) while Mary-Margret and Ashley whisper bets, trying to decide who’ll crack up first.

“Ugh, fine,” Emma whines, pulling the bundle of clothes closer, “Fine—but no pictures and no daring me to kiss anyone else!”

“Deal,” Ruby squeals, clapping her hands excitedly, “You don’t even have to change or anything, just put that on!” All three women lean forward, eager to see Emma reaction when she unrolls the bundle, all of them giggling at Emma’s indignant cry.

“A tiara? And a SuperWoman cape?” She exclaims, “No way! Ruby, it’s not happening!”

Mary-Margret grins at Emma and picks up the third item from the table, “Don’t forget the sash,” she singsongs, wiggling the hot pink sash reading ‘HEAD HEN’ in Emma’s face. Emma stares at her former roommate, her jaw hanging open—since when was Mary-Margret so _perky_ and outgoing?

“Fine,” she moans pitifully, “Fine. But if any of you get married, you better beware—I don’t get mad…” She winks at Ruby, “I get even.”

Emma slips the sash on over her white top before slipping on the cape, wrinkling her nose in distaste and reaching for the stupid plastic tiara. “I hate you guys,” she grumbles when she’s shoved the tiara onto her head, slightly grateful she’s taken the time to curl her hair, so the tiara simply stays where it is without slipping off her head all the time. “Now give me that list.”

Ashley giggles and hands her a small piece of paper, grinning as she explains, “Okay, so before we go home tonight, you need to complete all of the tasks on the list—when we cross off one of the tasks, you get a shot of your favorite drink, but for the rest of the night, you can only drink what we do.”

Emma grumbles under her breath and snatches the paper from Ashley’s hands, already dreading what they’ll make her do.

_Emma’s To-Do-List (We Know You’ll Love It, Stop Pouting :p)_

  1. _Kiss a man in uniform_
  2. _Get a condom from a random stranger (no condom machines allowed, Emma, don’t even think of sneaking into the bathroom and getting one)_
  3. _Dance on a table, singing along with the song as loud as you can?_
  4. _Switch tops with a guy._
  5. _Convince a guy you are still a virgin._
  6. _Blow a kiss to a random guy from across the room_
  7. _Explain to a random person how you used to be a lesbian but your hot, Irish, blue-eyed, dreamy fiancé converted you._
  8. _Convince someone you’re foreign (Use either a Russian or an Irish accent, like your soon-to-be-hubby! ;) )_
  9. _Remove an item of underwear without leaving the room._
  10. _Fit a condom over a bottle using only your mouth._
  11. _Have a hot guy buy you sex on the beach._
  12. _Dance like a geek in the middle of the dance floor._



_Have fun with these, Emma, and we hope you’ll remember doing all of this in the morning!_

_Lots of kisses from your bridesmaids!_

“Oh God,” Emma moans when she finishes reading through the list (though it’s not as bad as she first expected), “Give me that first shot—I’m gonna need it.”

She is going to regret this in the morning, she muses as she downs her first (fourth) shot, but she might as well enjoy it—she’s never had any real girlfriends to celebrate things with, and she does now…

She’ll enjoy it for as long as it lasts.

.

.

.

_Emma looks around the large ballroom wide-eyed, trying to take in the enormity of the wealth displayed in it (and the wealth displayed by every person in here)—she’s wearing a beautiful, deep red dress with a corset that makes her feel lightheaded, her hair piled up on her head in luxurious curls, and a diamond necklace and her engagement ring to finish off the look._

_She’s never felt more out of place._

_She’s also never felt more beautiful._

_She looks around the ballroom again, trying to locate her fiancé—he had left her (rather reluctantly, in his defense) with the wives of the other officers, who had all been clamoring to meet her, as Prue had informed her._

_Most of the women were in their late thirties, with three or more children, and a lot of them way too nosy for Emma’s taste._

_She’s the center of attention—Killian was one of the most eligible bachelors (which really baffles Emma, because really, he’s only nineteen, that’s way too young to be considered a real bachelor in her eyes) in the Royal Navy, and one of their most promising young officers—and all of the women at the ball want to know how she managed to capture the heart of Killian Jones._

_Many of the women have already expressed their genuine surprise that Killian was capable of any other kind of affection than his love for sticking to the rules._

_After the official announcement the King himself made of their engagement (she met a King, did she mention that?), people have been trying to drag them in every direction to talk to them and to get the latest gossip—it certainly seems that way._

_Prue and Liam have long since disappeared in the crowd, and Emma swears, she is going to gut Killian for leaving her with these catty, stabbing-you-in-the-back-as-soon-as-you-turn-around bitches._

_“So, miss Swan,” one of the younger (and bitchier) girls smiles insincerely, “Where is it that you are from? I have heard many a wild rumor, from Captain and Lieutenant Jones saving you from a band of pirates to you simply meeting in the streets of their hometown.”_

_Emma fidgets uncomfortably, unsure if telling the truth is a good idea, when her fiancé’s brother (she’s never been so happy to see Liam before) suddenly materializes at her side, his hand gently grasping her elbow. “Ah, ladies,” he smiles charmingly at the rest of the women, all of them returning his smile (though somewhat insincerely), “I must beg your forgiveness, for I shall steal Miss Swan from your company now. My brother is most anxious to be reunited with his lovely fiancée.”_

_After some inconsequential chatter, Liam manages to free her from the Mean Girls (she never would have thought the Enchanted Forest had their very own version of those bitches too) and escorts her across the ballroom, introducing her to several other officers while he does, all the while whispering commentary about everyone they meet in her ear._

_By the time they reach Killian, Prue and two other officers, Emma’s stomach aches from trying to keep her laughter and giggles quiet, so she won’t laugh and insult someone (she doesn’t want to accidently force Killian into a duel for her honor or their honor or whatever), her fingers digging into Liam’s arm in an effort not to double over in uncontrollable laughter._

_“Hello love,” Killian smiles, smoothly slipping his arm around her waist and pulling her to his side. “I missed you,” he whispers in her ear as he presses a chaste and sweet kiss to her cheek._

_“You’re the one who left me with them,” she grumbles, resisting the urge to lean against him and hug him (she’d been lectured on how to act and what to do and not to do in public extensively while Prue helped her into her dress), pouting because his hand resting on the small of her back is not enough contact—he’s just not close enough._

_He chuckles and takes her hand with his other hand, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles soothingly. “Emma, love, I would like to introduce you to my fellow Lieutenants, Lieutenant Horatio Hornblower—” the young man with dark hair much like Killian’s and kind brown eyes nods and bows to her, “—and Lieutenant Archibald Kennedy.” The younger, fair-haired man smiles sweetly at her and bows too._

_“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Swan,” the younger—Archibald, was it?—grins, “We have been most curious to meet the woman who finally managed to capture Killian’s attention. And please, I prefer Archie.”_

_Emma groans quietly, shaking her head before pouting at her fiancé. “If one more person says that to me, I swear, I will find a way to get this stupid dress to work with me while I bash their head in.”_

_Prue gasps, eyes wide and scandalized while the men burst into laughter, “Emma,” Prue gasps, “That was not at all lady-like.” Emma shrugs and leans a little to the right (effectively breaking the rules anyway, she might as well lean against her fiancé too, now that she’s at it), resting her head against Killian’s shoulder._

_“Hey, I never claimed to be a lady,” Emma grins._

_Archie eyes her appreciatively and winks at Killian. “Killy, I swear to God, if you don’t marry her, I will.”_

_Emma’s smile widens fractionally when Killian’s hand tightens around hers, his eyes darkening a little in jealousy (God, she does love it so much when he gets possessive of her). “Alas, mate,” he growls, “The lady is spoken for—besides, you couldn’t keep up with her even if you’d try, my friend.”_

_Emma snorts and pats his arm sweetly. “You can’t keep up with me either, sailor.”_

_Killian’s cheeks flush bright red as, once again, everyone but Prue bursts into laughter, well amused at her poor, sweet fiancé’s expense. They make small talk for a little while longer, and Emma genuinely takes a liking to Archie and Horatio, who seem like nice, good friends to Killian._

_The rest of the night passes in a blur, and Emma is still overwhelmed—but Killian’s constant presence at her side is calming, and she actually has a really good time (ignoring the Mean Girls is a lot easier with her hot fiancé whispering in her ear)._

_She’s never really allowed herself to think about possibly growing to love living here as she loves Killian, but after tonight…_

_She glances towards Killian and smiles._

_After tonight, she actually considers it a valid possibility._

Emma blinks confusedly, staring up at the ceiling for a long, hard moment before she realizes she’s staring at the ceiling of her bedroom ( _their_ bedroom).

How the hell did she get home?

And how much did she drink? She only gets freaky dreams like that one when she’s exhausted and/or drunk. She knows Colin’s having fairytale dreams more often since the accident—he says they’re sweet and nice and that he loves imagining what it would’ve been like if they had lived in a fairytale—and she’s had them too, a few times.

He’s right, they are nice.

But they’re not real. She doesn’t want to dwell on them—their life is amazing as it is, just like she told Ruby and the girls last night.

She wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Speaking of last night… She leans up on her elbows, wincing a little at the throbbing in her head, and glances around the room, before realizing she’s only in her tank top and panties.

How the hell did she get home last night?

She rolls onto her side, glaring at the nightstand, where her phone is impatiently buzzing, next to a glass of water and two Advil.

She smiles.

Of course—he must’ve come to pick her up at the Rabbit Hole; she vaguely remembers calling him to talk to him about something.

She just can’t remember what it is.

She sighs and reaches for the glass and the Advil, swallowing the pills before plopping back down on the bed and groaning.

She hates being hung over.

“Hello love,” her fiancé’s voice drifts towards her from the door, “I take it your Hen’s Night activities are catching up with you?”

She moans and tosses her pillow at him, burying her face in his pillow instead—it smells better anyway. “Shut up, you smug bastard,” she moans, “you looked awful after your Stag Night.” She can hear his throaty chuckle, and (though she tries to resist) she rolls into his arms the second she feels the bed dip next to her.

She breathes in his delicious scent and her eyes flutter shut—God, he really does smell good—as his arms come up around her, tugging her deeper into his arms. “I missed you too last night,” he confesses softly, running his fingers through her hair.

“Too?” Emma croaks indignantly, tilting her head up to pretend to glare at him, “Who said I missed you?”

“You did,” Colin chuckles, leaning in to press a quick kiss to her nose, “When you called me to explain how you were gay before you met me and I converted you.” 

“Oh God,” Emma groans, “ _That_ was why I called you? Stupid to-do-list.”

Colin smirks and continues drawing his fingers through her hair, “I thought it was hilarious, love—didn’t think there was something about your past I didn’t know yet.”

“Shut up,” she slaps his chest again, closing her eyes briefly to try to remember her dream.

It was a really good dream.

“Hey, I dreamed about the fairytale thing again,” she mutters, not moving from her comfortable position in his arms.

“Oh?” Colin kisses the top of her head, “What did you dream? I thought you didn’t have them as much as I do?” She shrugs, throwing a leg over both of his (he’s just not close enough) and presses a kiss to his chest. “I don’t—but I had one today… About our engagement being announced. It was pretty cool. We were all important and everyone was there for us.”

Colin hums, smiling slightly, “That would have been nice.” After a comfortable moment of silence, he asks, “What do you want to do today? I had some ideas and plans, but if you do not feel up for it, we can just stay in bed and do nothing.”

“What’s so special about today?” Emma yawns, snuggling further against her fiancé.

Colin chuckles and kisses the top of her head again, “It’s Valentine’s Day, love.”

“It is?” Emma frowns, “Well… Staying in bed with you certainly does have its merits,” she grins, tugging on the hem of his shirt playfully, smirking when his eyes darken several shades immediately, “We could go for lunch or dinner later.”

“So what do you propose we do in the mean time?” He grazes his teeth over her earlobe, smirking wolfishly as she shivers.

“Oh,” she moans, allowing him to roll them over, “I’m sure,” she tugs on his hair in frustration when he sucks a little too hard on her neck—she does _not_ want to have to cover up a hickey on her wedding day—, “we can think of something,” she finishes breathlessly.

Colin smirks and leans down to kiss her.

.

.

.

**Storybrooke Church, Storybrooke, Maine**

**_(Two Days Later (Day of the Wedding))_ **

Emma tugs on her wavy, perfectly mussed curled hair, biting her lip nervously as she stares into the mirror. Ruby has finished her make-up in record time, and is now running around like a headless chicken, together with Mary-Margret, checking detail after detail, making sure Emma and Colin’s day is perfect.

She’s tried to tell her friends (Yeah… It still feels weird to realize she actually has real friends) to relax, that it’s going to be perfect no matter what (as long as Colin’s still waiting for her at the end of the aisle), but Ruby, being Ruby, didn’t listen and switched into planning mode instantly.

Emma sighs to herself, rolling her eyes at her mirror image.

She isn’t nervous, per se, but she does feel jitters and butterflies in the pit of her stomach, and she feels slightly lightheaded.

She turns and smiles at Mary-Margret, who slipped back into the room when Emma hadn’t beenpaying attention, and who’s studying her with rapped attention—she knows they’re all waiting for her to freak out and bolt, but she’s not going to.

She loves Colin.

It’s just given—she can’t deny it or run from it and she doesn’t want to anymore either.  

She still needs to repeat that to them though, partly because she feels that they need to hear it from her one more time, and partly because she knows Colin is still slightly insecure—scared that she might change her mind; she knows that, and she knows he will be until she says ‘I do.’

She’s been ready to admit to herself and to him that she can’t live without him since the day of the accident, when she’d been terrified that she’d really lose him before she got the chance to make up for her bitchy behavior.

She sighs and shakes off her thoughts—today is all about her and Colin, no need or time for sad or melancholic thoughts.

“You ready, Emma?” Mary-Margret asks, that thoughtful, hesitant look still in her eyes.

Emma breathes in deeply and looks into the mirror one more time, smiling at her own reflection. Her cheeks are rosy with a blush she hasn’t had since she had gotten out of prison, her eyes are shining with happiness, her skin is creamy and flawless and her dress…

Her dress fits her like a glove—it’s perfect.

It’s creamy white and strapless, her breasts pushed up slightly by the push up bra she’s wearing underneath the dress and the belt around her waist. The skirt fans out around her, swishing around her legs. The embroidery on the bust continues on the front of the skirt.

It’s beautiful, and simple, and just what she wants.

Just like the rest of their day.

She turns and smiles at Mary-Margret. “Yeah,” she nods, a smile forming on her lips at the thought of her wickedly handsome fiancé waiting for her down the aisle, “Yeah, I’m ready.”

She watches warily as her friend stands up, wringing her hands nervously.

“So,” Mary-Margret starts, smiling nervously, “I know we haven’t known each other for very long, but I really feel like I’ve known you for… Well,” she smiles sheepishly, “Forever, and I’m really honored you picked me to be your maid of honor, and I just wanted you to know that I’ve never… I’ve never really had a good friend like you before.”

She takes a deep breath, and Emma bites her lip hard to choke back the burning tears in her eyes (she’s too fucking emotional today—this morning she nearly burst into tears when she saw that her dress and bouquet were finished and delivered in time and _so_ beautiful).

“I just wanted to say that I’m really glad I met you and Colin,” Mary-Margret finishes, tears brimming in her eyes, a soft smile appearing on her trembling lips.

At that, Emma can’t hold back the tears of emotion and bursts into tears, rushing across the room to envelop Mary-Margret in a hug, blubbering onto her friend’s shoulder (she swears, she’s not usually this emotional). After clinging to each other for a while, they wipe away their tears, Mary-Margret straightening her beautiful purple bride’s maid’s dress.

“Okay,” Mary-Margret smiles shakily, “I’m going to go downstairs _—_ David is waiting for me. You’ll hear the music…”

Emma nods and wipes away a few lingering tears, smiling as her friend heads down the stairs, to meet up with David (God, she really hopes that will work out for them; David told his wife he wants to split up just last week, and so far, it seems like she’s accepting it). She looks around the guest room she’d holedherself up in for the past twenty-four hours and feels her smile grow.

In a few minutes, she’ll be Mrs. Emma Brody.

Yeah. That sounds pretty good.

“Emma?”

She nearly jumps and spins around, her eyes widening. “Uh,” she frowns, taking in the stranger that’s standing before her (he’s somewhat good-looking, and he has that whole bad-boy thing going on), “Can I help you?”

He nods, looking down before he says, “I know you don’t know me, or remember me, but… We used to be in the same orphanage and… I tried to track you down before, but I couldn’t find you. I’m August… August Booth.”

He’s lying—though… She bites her lip and frowns. There’s enough truth in his words to make her doubt. He shoots her a small, bittersweet smile and she bites back the snarky remark that lays on the tip of her tongue and tilts her head, signaling him to continue.

He takes a step closer to her, his eyes flashing with something she can’t really identify. “You look very beautiful,” he says softly, “Though I must admit it was a surprise to find you were on the verge of getting married. I can’t believe I was almost too late.”

Emma bites her lip, slightly uncomfortable.

“Okay, buddy, thanks for the compliment and all, but I really don’t know what you want me to do or say here—and I don’t really care,” she replies warily, “I really have to get down there.” She glances at the door, “My fiancé is waiting for me.”

Booth groans and looks down again, “See, that’s kind of why I’m here now… I don’t think you should marry him.”

Her vision tints red.

Who the hell does he think he is?

“That really isn’t any of your business,” she hisses, “I don’t know who you are, nor what gave you the impression that I givea rat’s ass about what _you_ think I should do, but whatever it is,” she glares at him, “I. Don’t. Care. I love my fiancé, I can’t wait to be his wife and if you don’t get out of my way right now, I will kick your ass and arrest you for stalking.”

“You can’t do that,” he says, but she can see the hint of fear in his eyes, and she absolutely loves it.

“I’m the Sherriff, buddy,” she smirks, “Watch me.” She turns away from him and sighs before opening the door and stepping out into the hallway, taking another deep breath before she heads towards the stairs.

Her previous excitement and butterfly jitters return, and she smiles—no more drama.

She’s done with drama.

Today is her wedding day—she’s marrying the man she loves more than she loves anything else in the entire world (with the possible exception of Henry)—and there will be no more reasons for sadness today.

She slowly descends the stairs, almost as though in a haze, hardly aware of the music. Henry is waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in a small version of David’s and Colin’s suits, and he looks _so_ grown-up and handsome that she nearly starts bawling all over again. “Hey kid,” she chokes, swallowing back more tears, “You look great.”

Henry chuckles and pats her arm gently, “Hey Emma. You look really beautiful—I think you might actually make Colin’s head explode.”

Emma giggles and looks up again when the music starts, swallowing thickly. “You ready, kid?” She looks down at Henry, who will be walking her down the aisle (Regina had, in a _very_ surprising move, offered Emma the chance to let her son be a part of the wedding).

Henry grins up at her and chuckles, “I think that’s supposed to be my line.”

She smiles and watches Mary-Margret and David disappear through the double doors, her heart pounding in her chest as the traditional wedding march (Ruby and Mary-Margret had insisted that it was absolutely necessary to use that music) starts, and Henry tugs on her arm to move her towards the doors.

“Here we go,” she breathes, more to herself than to Henry, “Showtime.” Slowly, they walk through the large double doors, smiling at the sight before her.

All of their best friends are gathered to see them tie the knot—David, Mary-Margret, Ruby, Ashley, Granny and even Regina (though she does look profoundly uncomfortable) are gathered around the small, white gazebo that Colin and David had set up in the middle of the large garden behind the church.

The gazebo is decorated simply, rose vines wrapping around the pillars, small bouquets placed on either side of the aisle.

And in front of the small group, stands one, tall, lone figure.

Colin is standing off to one side on the steps of the gazebo, a smile spreading on his face as Emma’s eyes meet his. She enjoys the way his eyes widen when he takes in what she’s wearing, though she is thoroughly distracted by his own attire.

Her heart beats too fast, and the only thing she’s aware of anymore is her smoking hot soon-to-be husband waiting for her at the end of this far-too-long aisle. He looks sinfully delicious in his black and white suit, his hair slightly mussed, as though he’s been running his fingers through it multiple times.

Everyone chuckles a little when Henry places Emma’s hand in Colin’s, glaring at him and ordering him to take care of his mom. “Hello beautiful,” he whispers when Henry takes a few steps back to stand next to David.

“Hi,” she whispers back, once again overcome by emotions, unable to stop the single tear that runs down her cheek. Colin smiles and wipes her tear away with the pad of his thumb, his own eyes watering too—Emma bites her lip and manages a smile. She never thought she’d see the day Colin would tear up and get all emotional in front of other people than she herself, but she’s beyond touched that he allows himself to just be on their wedding day.

“Don’t cry, love,” he breathes, “This is a good day.” He takes both of her hands in his, lifting them to his lips to press a soft, tender kiss on her knuckles before they turn to the priest who will be officiating the wedding.

The ceremony is mostly a blur to Emma, and all she can focus on is Colin, and the way he keeps staring at her, his gaze never once leaving hers, not even when the priest calls them to attention and asks them to read the vows they have written themselves.

Colin chokes a little on his words at first, and she can hear Ruby and Mary-Margret giggle and feels a faint, barely-there blush burn on her cheeks as Colin coughsand smiles at her nervously before he starts over. “Emma,” he starts, taking a deep, unnecessary breath, “I’m not one for epic declarations of love, and I’m not … I’m not perfect—but you saw something in me. Something I didn’t even know existed anymore. And I love you. I feel like I’ve loved you for so long, there wasn’t even a time that I didn’t.”

She gasps for breath and tries to hold back her tears at the utter conviction and emotion in his words.

“And I’m never going to stop loving you—so today, I pledge myself to you, body and soul, to have and to hold, to love and to cherish for the rest of our lives,” he finishes, sending her a small watery smile—and she chokes back a sob at the glistening tears in his cerulean eyes.

The priest turns to her, and Emma swallows back her nerves. She’s been contemplating what to say when she’d speak her vows to Colin for days, weeks even, before she realized that, whatever she would say, it would always be perfect.

“Colin,” she begins, “My dear, sweet, pain-in-the-ass Colin… I know that I fought you—us—for so long… Too long… But I need you to know that I always loved you—always. You were always there for me, always fought for me, always came back for me, kept me safe. You were my rock, my protector, my everything—and you are always going to be all of those things to me. I am going to pledge myself to you, body and soul, to have and to hold, to love and to cherish for the rest of our lives.”

Colin tenderly wipes away the tear that had rolled down her cheek while she spoke, and she can see how he struggles to keep his own tears at bay.

“I love you,” she mouths, her heart soaring in happiness such as she hasn’t felt in a very long time.

Colin grins and mouths the words back to her as the priest states, “Do you, Emma Swan, take this man, Colin Brody, to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

Tears are now flowing down her cheeks, as she nods slightly, choking, “I do.” Slowly, she slides the simple, silver wedding band onto the third finger of his right hand (she refused to let him get out of wearing a ring because he doesn’t have a left hand), caressing the fingerprint that hasbeen imbedded in the ring with a small smile.

Colin seems to be unable to fight back his emotions anymore as his own tears run down his cheeks, his lips twisting into a radiant smile when the priest turns to him. “And do you, Colin Brody, take this woman, Emma Swan, to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

Emma knowsColin hates showing any sort of emotion in front of others—it supposedly messes with his bad-boy-image—but he merely smiles through the tears that arecoating his skin and replies, “Hell yes, I do.” He slides her wedding band—a copy of his, but with his fingerprint and slightly smaller—onto her finger, caressing both her engagement ring and the wedding band as they wait for the priest to pronounce them husband and wife.

They are already moving closer together, without any sort of conscious thought, both too impatient to wait for the priest to tell Colin he can kiss his bride. Their bodies move almost automatically, and Emma barely even hears the priest speak the words that declare her and Colin husband and wife, and she doubts whether Colin did.

Her arms slide around Colin’s neck as his fingers curl into her hair, their lips colliding softly, but no less passionate than any of their other kisses—but she can feel the difference. Colin’s the one to pull away from her, resting his forehead against hers as they listen to their friends cheering and whooping. She hugs him close and presses another soft kiss to his lips, her heart feeling so light, and so filled with love, she’s almost sure she can fly away if she tries.

“We really did it,” she whispers, staring deeply into his eyes, loving how she can read his every emotion and sentiment, “We’re married.”

He smiles and whispers, “Aye, we did… You are stuck with me now, love.” She nods and smiles. Somehow, spending the rest of her life with Colin sounds like the best decision she’s ever made.

She tightens her arms around him and whispers, “Good.”

.

.

.

August narrows his eyes as he witnesses the display behind the church and sighs, trying to come up with something to say to his mate—he should have tried harder, but he’s all too aware that Emma had been a hundred percent serious when she threatened to have him arrested.

His phone starts ringing and he winces, hesitating before answering. “Hey… No, I was too late, I couldn’t stop it anymore.” He sighs at the less than pleased response and shrugs, “Well, what did you expect me to do, kidnap her?”

He shakes his head at the desperate cry on the other side of the line and sighs, “There’s nothing I can do now—she’s married. Maybe you should just accept that.” He listens for another long, tense response and shakes his head, grumbling, “Yeah… I thought you’d say that. I guess I’ll see you when you get here.”

He hangs up and chances one more look at the wedding party, before turning and heading down Main Road, trying to figure out his next step.

It’s time to pull out the big guns.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen**

**March 2 nd, 2012 – Mary-Margret’s Loft  
 _(One week later)_**

Emma pushes open the door to Mary-Margret’s loft, sighing tiredly as she trudges through the room, plopping down on the bed where Mary-Margret is folding her laundry.

“Hey,” Mary-Margret smiles, “How was your honeymoon?”

“Good. We had fun,” Emma grins, though the smile drops from her lips almost immediately—she’s _so_ tired. There had been mountains of paperwork waiting for her the second she and Colin had come back (not that they went very far—they just went to see some friends back in Boston), not to mention August Booth, who was locked up in a holding cell for some mysterious reason Regina refused to admit.

She hasn’t even been back twenty-four hours and she’s already swamped with work.

Colin’s been calling around to see if anyone needs a bartender or a handy man (he’d been laid off from the Rabbit Hole after the accident, because he was out for several months, and they needed someone to work) or something of a kind, but he hasn’t heard anything yet, and Emma knows he’s going stir-crazy, sitting at home doing nothing  (she’s considered offering him a job as a deputy, but she knows Regina would never be okay with it, and things with her have finally settled into a comfortable routine, and Emma’s reluctant to mess that up now).

She sighs heavily and drops her head back against the soft bedding.

“Uh-oh,” Mary-Margret chuckles, “That sigh doesn’t sound good.”  

 “It’s nothing,” Emma grumbles, “There’s just a lot of stuff going on right now.” She closes her eyes and takes a few deep breaths to settle her upset stomach—she does not have the time to be sick on top of having already taken a week off for her honeymoon. “What juicy gossip did I miss?” she asks instead, trying to draw Mary-Margret’s attention away from how tired and nauseated she is.

Emma knows Mary-Margret will make a big deal out of it, and she just _really_ isn’t in the mood for it.

“Not much,” Mary-Margret shrugs, continuing to fold her laundry, falling silent for a moment before she exclaims, “Oh, there were these twins from my class, at school… Their mom died a while ago, and they got into trouble for stealing food from the grocery store.”

Emma leans up on her elbows, frowning (it’s hitting a little too close to home, because damn it, the kids must’ve been Henry’s age to be in Mary-Margret’s class). “I didn’t read anything about that in the reports,” she says slowly.

“No,” Mary-Margret shakes her head, “Their father came forward… They found their family. It was really sweet.”

“I wonder what that would be like,” Emma muses quietly, staring up at the ceiling.

She only half-catches Mary-Margret’s kind and gentle smile as the woman utters, “Maybe you’ll find out one day. You can’t give up.”  

Emma hums and closes her eyes again, trying to shut out the world for a few moments. “I don’t know… I kind of think giving up might be the best plan… I mean—there’s just nothing to go on either. All I have is my baby-blanket. I don’t even have my birth certificate.” She sighs and shrugs, “Maybe I shouldn’t want more. I have Colin and Henry and you guys… Maybe I just need to let go.”

Mary-Margret frowns, shaking her head lightly. “No, you don’t.”  

“Really?” Emma bites her lip pensively, trying to find a reason to continue _wanting_ to meet her parents, but all she can see and feel now is the harsh sting of rejection. “If they wanted to know me,” she concludes softly, “They wouldn’t make it so hard to look.”

That silences Mary-Margret for a moment, before she sighs and nods a little. “Maybe,” she concedes, “but maybe there’s an explanation… maybe there really is a reason.”

“Well,” Emma chuckles, “If there is, it’ll be something crazy.” She grins and adds, “Something even crazier than Henry’s theory.”

“Oh?” Mary-Margret questions, returning to folding her laundry with a small smile, “And what is Henry’s theory?”

Emma smiles up at her and explains, “That my parents put me in a magical wardrobe, and sent me to this world to save them.” She’s laying the sarcasm on thickly, but she really can’t help it, it still sounds as ridiculous as it did when Henry first told her.

Mary-Margret laughs softly, grinning at Emma when she sits up again, her stomach slightly calmer than it had been earlier. “Awe,” she giggles, “Who does he think they are?”

“Well,” Emma starts, raising an eyebrow at Mary-Margret, “For one… You.”

The look on the teacher’s face is priceless, and Emma really wishes she hadn’t left her phone in her jacket, so she could document Mary-Margret’s response.

“Me?” She frowns confusedly.

Emma shrugs and amends, “Well.. Snow White.”

“Snow White…” Mary-Margret trails off and chuckles, “Snow White has a kid?”

“Yeah,” Emma drawls, chuckling a little, “Apparently that book you gave him… Not exactly the stories in the most traditional sense.”

Mary-Margret laughs and shakes her head. “I have a kid… You’d think I’d remember that.”

“Yeah,” Emma grumbles, her mind clouded with darker, bitter thoughts again (she really kind of does wish she’d have a mother like Mary-Margret), “You’d think.”

Mary-Margret catches onto Emma’s mood and smiles softly, leaning forward to poke Emma’s shoulder playfully. “Well, you do kind of have my chin.” That snaps Emma from her funky mood, and they both burst out into laughter, grinning and giggling like a pair of teenagers.

“Okay,” Emma smiles, little over an hour later, “I’ve got to go—Colin will be waiting for me… It was nice to talk to you again.”

“Of course,” Mary-Margret nods, “Tell Colin I said hi.” She walks with Emma to the door, adding, “Oh, and Emma?” Emma raises an eyebrow at her in question while she shrugs on her jacket, caught a little off guard by the knowing smile on Mary-Margret’s lips.

“You look really good,” Mary-Margret grins, “Positively _radiant_.”

She can’t stop thinking about Mary-Margret’s words the entire way home.

Radiant.

Who the hell uses the word radiant?

“Hello, love.”

Colin’s welcoming words when she walks inside snap her from her thoughts, and she tries to shake off the uneasy, slightly queasy feeling as she moves over to the couch to kiss her husband. “Hey,” she sighs, curling into his side, “Mary-Margret says ‘hi’.”

They spend the rest of the night curled up on the couch together, watching several episodes of some crime show while telling each other interesting tidbits about their first day back in Storybrooke. It’s late when they finally do retire to bed, and it’s not until Colin’s already fast asleep that Mary-Margret’s words suddenly click in her head—making sense.

In a way that absolutely terrifies her.

She looks _radiant_.

Her period is late—by a day, but it’s still late.

Holy shit.

She sits up and stares at her husband’s serene, sleeping face.

She’s pregnant.

.

.

.

**Sheriff’s Station, Storybrooke  
 _(Two days later)_**

She still hasn’t taken a test.

She hasn’t told Colin of her suspicions either—she doesn’t want to get his hopes up in case it really turns out to be a fluke; she’s still on the pill too, so there’s like a chance of 0.01% of her actually being pregnant.

“You look pre-occupied, Sheriff.”

She closes her eyes in desperation, mentally counting to ten—she’d _almost_ forgotten about her annoying little prisoner. Regina had finally told her he was locked up for stalking and accosting Henry—it looks like this lunatic believes in the whole Curse-thing too, and is hell-bent on getting her to _believe_.

“Trouble in newly-wed paradise?” He continues in a smug tone, trying her patience, “Because I think I did try to warn you about marrying him.”

“God,” Emma groans, “Do you ever shut up?” She turns her chair to face him and raises an eyebrow at him. “You do realize how much trouble you’re in, right? You stalked and harassed the _Mayor’s_ son. Who also happens to be _my_ son.”

“I wasn’t going to hurt the kid,” August rolls his eyes, “I was just consulting with him about the Curse. How to get you to believe and break it—ask your boy, I’m sure he’ll confirm it.”

Emma glares at him, shaking her head. “I don’t care. I do not need a lunatic hanging around my son, encouraging those crazy ideas about a Curse and shit like that.” She glares at him hard, daring him to deny or refute her words.

“So you really don’t believe?” It’s not a question, and Emma knows it.

“That we’re all fairytale characters?” She chuckles, “Of course not. It’s insane.”

“It really isn’t,” he starts off slowly, “You really were sent to this world through the magical wardrobe.” Before she gets the chance to protest or tell him to shut up (which she really wants to do), he continues, eagerly jumping to his feet, moving closer to the bars, “I was there, I was the seven-year-old boy who found you—I’m from the Enchanted Forest too!”

“Awe,” Emma chuckles, shaking her head, “That’s too bad—‘cause you’re going to be in here for a while longer… No forests for you, buddy.”

Instead of looking sullen and beat-down, like he usually does when she brings up the fact that he’s being delusional and that he’s going to be in jail for a while longer, he straightens and leans against the cold, iron bars, a smirk tugging on his lips. “Actually,” he grins, “I think you’ll find a friend of mine coming over to post my bail.”

“Really?” Emma leans back in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest, “And who would that friend be?”

“That would be me.”

Emma freezes in her seat, her heart stuttering almost painfully in her chest as she recognizes his voice—it may have been eleven years since she last heard him talk, but she’d recognize that voice anywhere.

She swallows thickly and tries to steel herself before she slowly spins the chair around, facing the man that abandoned her and set her up, sending her to prison so she couldn’t come after him (which was really him stroking his own ego, because it’s not like she was actually in love with him). “Neal,” she states coldly, “What are you doing here?”

He has the nerve to smile at her and shrugs. “I’m here to post August’s bail—however much it is.” He looks down, his hands pushed deep into his pockets, “And… When I heard you lived here... I kind of wanted to see you too.” He looks up again, smiling sheepishly. “You look really good, Ems.”

“It’s Sheriff Swa—Brody, actually,” she spits, almost wishing magic and fairytales did exist so she could turn Neal into a toad or something equally ridiculous, “and I’m sorry, bail hasn’t been set, so he can’t get out yet.”

“Oh, come on, Emma,” Neal cajoles, “You’re the Sheriff, I’m sure you can pull some strings.”

Emma frowns and spits, “Oh, I could,” she admits, “But it’s also _my_ son he’s been harassing and stalking, so I won’t be pulling any strings for your _friend_ here.” Before Neal or August can say anything else, the door to the Station opens again, and Colin comes strolling in, carrying a plastic bag—their lunch, _of course_ , damn it.

“Hello, love, I’m sorry, I know I’m late—but Granny’s was running at full capacity and—” He stops in the doorway, taking in the tense situation, before he smiles tightly and shoots her a questioning glance. “I’m sorry, Sheriff, I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”

She can’t suppress the small smile that tugs on her lips at his sudden switch from loving husband to respectful citizen and grins at him. “That’s okay, _honey_ ,” she emphasizes the pet name, trying to ignore Colin’s chuckle (she _never_ uses pet names, that’s his department), not missing how Neal twitches slightly, “I was just explaining to Mr. Cassidy that he cannot post bail for his friend just yet.”

“Ah,” Colin chuckles, moving towards her desk, setting down the bag with their lunch, leaning down to peck her lips, “I shall endeavor not to interrupt then—I’ll go fetch plates and cutlery, love, while you finish up.”

She actually grins at the look on Neal’s face when Colin disappears in the small attached kitchenette, and settles back in her chair comfortably, raising an expectant eyebrow at Neal. “Well?” She questions, “Are you done? ‘Cause I got a lunch to get to.”

“With your little boy toy?” Neal sneers, his eyes dark (he’s almost green with envy, and she really wishes it didn’t make her feel as smug as it does).

“No,” Emma shakes her head, getting to her feet slowly, “With my _husband_. August’s bail will be set sometime this week, I’ll be sure to let him call you when it is set. Goodbye, Neal.” She turns around and joins Colin in the kitchenette, listening intently until she can hear the front door slam shut—he’s gone.

Oh thank God, he’s gone.

“Are you okay, love?”

Colin’s voice snaps her from her thoughts, and she breathes out shakily, finally releasing the deep breath she’d been holding the entire time Neal was in there. “Yeah,” she nods slowly, “Yeah, I’m fine.” She moves towards him, sliding her arms around his waist to hug him close. She needs to feel him, smell him and reassure herself that he’s here, and that he loves her and that he won’t leave her like Neal did.

“That was him, was it not?” His voice is soft, his lips brushing over the top of her head, his arms tightening around her. “Neal.”

“Yeah,” she nods shakily, “I’m sorry,” she adds, “I shouldn’t be so shaken up about this, I just really didn’t expect to see him again.” He doesn’t respond, and he doesn’t have to—she knows that he understands, and that he’s not mad at her.  

“Oh God,” she chokes, “What am I going to tell Henry?” He has no answer—not that she expected one; she’s the one that decided to lie to Henry, not expecting Neal to ever show up in their lives; she’s the one that has to solve it.

“Come, love,” he says softly after a short, tense silence, kissing the top of her head, “let’s eat.”

“Yeah,” she breathes shakily, “let’s.”

They’re quiet while  they eat, Emma completely immersed in her own thoughts—she can’t believe that a little over twenty-four hours ago, she was blissfully happy and carefree on her honeymoon; she can’t believe how much shit can pile up in just twenty-four hours.

And on top of her ex showing up, potentially ruining her fragile relationship with her son, she might be pregnant too.

Nothing’s ever easy for her, is it?

“Do you ever think about having kids?” Emma inquires carefully, biting her lip nervously as she studies her husband from beneath her eyelashes, as she sitson top of the small kitchen table. The question has been bugging her for days, and she _wants_ the answer before she takes a test or even remotely feels ready to share her suspicions with him.

“Of course,” Colin smiles at her over his shoulder, tossing the trash of their lunch in the small trash can, “You know I would love to have a family with you—don’t get me wrong, love, I adore the lad, but I am not at all opposed to having more.” He sends her a saucy wink, and her heart feels a lot lighter all of a sudden.

“How about you, love?” He turns to her, eyeing her curiously, “I thought you said you were not ready for that by a long shot.”

“I’m not,” she says, too fast. Colin levels her with a raised eyebrow and a look that tells her he doesn’t buy it at all. “Okay,” she amends, “Maybe I’ve been thinking about it… But,” she sighs and runs her fingers through her hair, “I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m ready to be a mother—or even if I can be one.”

“Love, you are a wonderful mother—you do great with Henry.” He moves to stand between her legs, his hand resting on her thigh. “Do you want to have more children?” He asks, and she nearly drowns in the intense look in his eyes.

“Yes,” she finally says, “Yes. But I don’t know if we’re ready.”

“We don’t have to be, not right away,” he reminds her, “Even if we’d start trying, there’s no guarantee we’d get pregnant right away—and even if we did,” he offers her a gentle smile, “We’d still have nine months to prepare, love.”

“I know,” she breathes, “Colin, I nee—” The phone rings and the small amount of courage she’d managed to gather disappears as quickly as snow in the sun. “Damn it,” she sighs, taking the phone from Colin’s outstretched hand.

“Sheriff Swan speaking,” she sighs, pouting up at her husband, who’s stroking her cheek gently while she listens to Leroy whine drunkenly about his regular room at Granny’s (which really is just the empty room on the ground floor of the B&B) being rented out to some stranger and that he wants a complaint filed.

“Leroy, I’m sorry,” she says slowly, “but you don’t pay for that room, and Granny has every right to rent it out to someone who will pay for it if she wants to.” She has a sneaking suspicion who that someone willing to pay is (though it would be the first time she’s seen him pay for anything), but doesn’t allow herself to think any more on the subject.

She listens to him complain for a bit longer before hanging up, smiling apologetically at Colin. “Looks like lunch is over.”

He pouts, and she smiles at how ridiculous he looks, taking comfort in the fact that she knows she won’t ever be coming home to an empty house anymore—her days of being alone and miserable are really over, and it’s the first time she honestly realizes it. “I love you,” she declares, tip-toeing to kiss him, before shoving him out the door so she can get back to work.

She manages to ignore August’s whining about the Curse for the rest of the day (though she _is_ slightly unnerved by how many details he seems to know), and debates on whether she should confront Neal, tell him to stay the hell away from her and Colin and Henry—Dear God, what is she going to tell Henry?—, or to just go home and spend the night in with her husband.

In the end, the decision is made for her, in the form of her (slightly hyper-active) son bouncing into the station, insisting he take her and Colin out for dinner at Granny’s, since it’ll be the first time he’s really spent any time with them since the wedding.

She quickly accepts, sees to it that August has food and water and locks up the station.

Henry keeps chattering on the way to the Diner, regaling her with tale after tale about his classmates and school and stupid _bloody_ fairytales—great, now she sounds like Colin too—but, despite her distraction and inability to focus on anything but the big clusterfuck that is her life right now, she manages to smile and nod and laugh at appropriate moments during Henry’s monologue.

It’s not until she sees Neal in the Diner too, glaring at the back of Colin’s head, that she realizes how complicated things are about to get.

Damn it.

.

.

.

**_At that precise time, Granny’s Diner_ **

She barely contains the sneer when she watches the ‘happy little family’ sit down to enjoy their meal together—if only they knew what horrors await them when she gets her hands on them.

She needs that annoying Savior and her little pirate plaything out of the way, preferably before the infuriating woman breaks the Curse—she will never be able to fulfill her mission if they are still in the way; she needs to isolate the boy, so he will be easy for her to take.

She slowly starts formulating a plan, keeping her eyes on them—she needs to get Emma out of the way first; without her, the rest of her little family would start falling apart. She has no doubt the pirate would fall back into his old habits, and the boy would be left with Regina—and she knows that she can take on Regina and win.

The girl would not be so silly as to try and fight her.

A poisoned apple would do the trick, she determines, and it cannot at all be traced back to her—after all, it _is_ Regina’s signature, not hers.

Yes, she muses, poisoned apple to take out the precious Savior (and even her little pirate, if she plays her part well), leaving only Regina standing between her and her goal.

She’s so close to victory she can almost taste it.

She’ll let them have tonight—but tomorrow… Tomorrow she will put her plan into action, and take down that infernal Savior and her supposed _love_.

Stupid, stupid girl.

Does she not know?

Love. Is. Weakness.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter Twenty**

**14 th March, 2012 – Emma & Colin Brody’s House  
 _(Ten days later)_**

She could get used to this.

After the downright horrible week she's had (what with Neal counting back far enough to realize Henry's his and blurting it out in front of Henry—who now refuses to speak to her—, August still bugging her about the Curse thing, keeping her pregnancy from everyone so it won't get out before she can tell Colin and so many other crappy little things), she could really get used to her husband spoiling her a little.

She looks around, taking in the beautiful setup, and bites her lip to hide her smile. She expected some kind of celebration (it's just who he is, really), but she didn't expect him to go all out for her.

"Colin," she whispers, "You shouldn't ha—"

"Hush, love," he chuckles, sliding his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder, "Of course I did. We met exactly six years and three months ago. We should celebrate." She relaxes into his embrace, vaguely remembering that she really should be telling him about the baby—she's going to start showing soon, and she can't keep it from him for much longer (and she's not even sure why she's kept it from him for as long as she has).

"You're right," she sighs happily, "We have a lot of really good reasons to celebrate."

Slowly, she turns in his arms, biting her lip nervously as she tries to think of the right words to tell her husband that they're having a baby, and despite knowing that Colin would love to have children with her, she's still nervous and slightly terrified of his response.

"I, uh," she chuckles nervously, "I have some really good news… At least I think it is."

Colin raises an inquisitive eyebrow at her, stroking his fingers through her hair, "Is that so? And what is this great news?"

She swallows thickly and takes a deep breath to steady her nerves, smiling up at her husband hesitantly—he'll love this, she knows that, it's not like last time, she's not alone—and opening her mouth, debating how to say it to him, when the doorbell rings and shatters the moment.

She sighs and drops her head forwardagainst his chest, grumbling internally.

Colin merely chuckles and presses a kiss to her forehead before moving to the hall to open the door.

She stands in the middle of the room for a long, tense moment, cursing whoever's at the door for interrupting her perfect moment—she's not going to get another one—and although she knows that shouldn't matter, it does.

This pregnancy is supposed to be different from Henry's; she wants to do it right this time.

She's snapped from her thoughts when Colin walks back into the room, carrying a large pastry box. "Uh," Emma frowns, gesturing towards the box, "Care to explain, hubby?"

Colin shrugs and sets the box on the table, before turning back to her. "A-welcome-to-the-neighborhood-slash-congratulations-on-your-recent-nuptials-present, I am told." Then he offers, "Apparently it's a present from several of our neighbors."

"What is it?" Emma questions curiously, moving towards the table to peek in the box.

"An apple pie," Colin shrugs, "It actually looks rather good. Want to skip dinner and have some now?" He winks at her with a cheeky grin; one that she cannot help but return. Not a lot of people actually realize how much of a sweet tooth her husband really has, and she still finds it adorable every time he actually admits to it.

"Sure," she chuckles, "like me saying 'no' would actually stop you."

He just gives her his most boyishly charming smile and opens the box, eyeing the turnover greedily, like he might actually devour it in whole.

She grins and shakes her head at him. "Hold up there," she picks up the box and pulls him into the kitchen with her, "At least be civilized enough to use cutlery and plates."

"Civilization is sorely overestimated, love," Colin smirks, sliding his arms around her waist and pressing a kiss to her neck, successfully distracting her for long enough to actually snatch a piece of the pie she just cut.

"Colin!" She exclaims, spinning around to see her husband grinning at her with a playful glint in his eye, the slice of pie already half in his mouth. "I thought I was supposed to be the one with crazy food cravings," she rolls her eyes as she watches him stuff his face with pie, before her own words register.

His eyes widen, and for a split-second she feels happy that she's finally told him.

And then he chokes, panic flashing through his bright blue eyes before they roll back in their sockets, and he keels over.

"Colin?" Emma chokes, stumbling forwards, falling to her knees next to her husband, her hands moving frantically all over him, trying to determine what the hell just happened. He's not one to faint, not even over big news, but his throat is all clear and he's still breathing... he just…

Won't. Wake. Up.

Tears flood her eyes before she can even begin to pull herself together, and her hands are shaking. "Colin, wake up," she pleads, shaking him again, slapping his cheek and trying to ignore the tears rolling down her own—damn hormones.

"Don't," she breathes, pressing her fingers to his neck, trying to feel for his pulse, "Just don't do this… You promised… wake up, you asshole."

His pulse is so weak and slow that, for a long, terrible moment, she actually thinks it's not there and her heart completely shatters, before she finally feels it, feels his heart throbbing faintly against her fingers. "Please, be okay," she whispers, her hands shaking as she pulls his phone from his pocket to call an ambulance, "you can't die on me… on us," her fingers ghost over her still-flat stomach, "now."

The four minutes she spends waiting for the ambulance have never lasted this long before.

She spends every second of it with her ear pressed to Colin's chest, frantically listening for his heartbeat and breathing, refusing to consider that he might be too sick to be helped, or that he might die.

He can't die.

She needs him.

He promised he'd never leave her—and he always keeps his promises.

It's that simple.

.

.

.

"Don't give me that crap!" Emma screams at Whale, "I want to know what the hell is wrong with my husband! He was fine one moment and collapsed the next!" She's past the stage of being frightened and weak and teary.

She's just really pissed off right now (she's still terrified, but being angry is far more productive, and she'll just stay angry until someone comes along and tells her Colin is going to be just fine).

No one is giving her any straight answers and Whale won't let her see him, and she's terrified because she still has no idea what the hell happened.

She hadn't been allowed into the ambulance with him, forced to follow them to the hospital in the Bug, and the very second he'd been wheeled into the ER, she'd been ushered into one of the family rooms and ordered to wait until the doctor could come talk to her.

"Sheriff, please," Whale tries to placate her, "Is there anything he did today that was out of the ordinary? Anything he drank, something he ate?" She allows him to usher her to one of the hard, uncomfortable, plastic chairs in the waiting room, where she deflates and rakes her fingers through her hair.

"No," she frowns, "I don't—"

She breaks off as the scene of her husband collapsing replays in her head—his wide, scared, blue eyes, his fingers grasping at his throat, still covered in whipped cream from that stupid pie.

Her eyes widen.

"Pie," she breathes, "He ate from a pie—some neighbors gave it to us," she looks up at Whale, biting her lip nervously, "It was apple pie; I didn't eat it, but he did." The more she thinks about it, the more it makes sense and when she gets her hands on the person that baked that pie…

They better start running.

"Can you bring us a sample of the pie?" Whale offers her a tight smile, "If there's something in it, we should be able to find it rather quickly and then we can treat Colin accordingly."

"Yes," Emma nods frantically, "Yeah, let me… I'll call Mary-Margret, she can pick it up and bring it here." Her hands are shaking when she pulls her phone from her pocket, and she thanks God for having had the foresight of making Mary-Margret her speed dial #2.

The conversation is short and Emma's crying all over again by the time she hangs up, the sense of fear and of dread slowly slipping back into the forefront of her mind, despite Mary-Margret's attempts at comfort.

"She's on her way," she tells Whale softly, dropping her phone on the seat next to her shakily, her fingers moving almost of their own accord as they curl around the cold metal of her wedding and engagement rings. The words have barely left her lips when an alarm sounds from the ER, where she knows Colin is, and someone yells for Whale.

He doesn't even bother to offer her any platitudes or denials—they both know it's for Colin—and sprints back into the ER, leaving her with more questions than answers and a sense of dread she just can't shake.

She gives him a five-second head-start before sprinting after him, ignoring the multiple nurses and doctors yelling at her, telling her she can't be there—she doesn't care.

She can't care.

She needs to see her husband, she needs to see he's okay.

She nearly slips when she skids to a stop in front of the small cubicle, freezing completely as her gaze falls on her husband's limp body.

He's so pale—so, so pale.

Emma can hear herself crying out his name, struggling against the two male nurses who've grabbed her. Whale and the other nurses working on him don't even look around at her, too busy trying to stabilize Colin's condition.

She can only watch helplessly from the sidelines as Whale and the five others try to keep his oxygen levels up. He doesn't regain consciousness—hasn't since he collapsed—which makes her even more scared and frantic, though she is grateful that his condition doesn't seem to worsen any further.

She can only catch parts of the frantic conversation, and none of it comforts her—not in the slightest.

There's only one thing she can conclude out of it, and that conclusion makes her feel sick, her heart shattering beyond repair.

He's dying.

Her husband is dying.

.

.

.

Hours later, she's still in the family room, where the two nurses left her after her breakdown in the middle of the ER, her fingers clenched around her phone so hard, her knuckles are turning white. "I just want some straight answers," she hisses into the phone, "Someone delivered thatcake to my house and poisoned my husband—I want to know who. I don't care what you have to do, just figure it out, Regina!"

She had called Regina an hour ago, after Whale came to inform her that nothing out of the ordinary had been found in the cake Mary-Margret had brought, and that they couldn't find anything unusual in Colin's blood work. There was no reason for him to keep deteriorating. She's absolutely desperate to find someone who could help her figure this out by now. Who better to ask than the Mayor?

Regina, for all her faults, really does want to help her, despite their previous issues—they had found common ground with Henry—and Emma knows that Regina loves Henry more than anything. She appreciates that.

She knows Henry has a good life with Regina (not considering that ridiculous Evil Queen thing)—the kind of life she wanted for him when she gave him up. She told Regina as much, and since then, they struck up some kind of awkward friendship.

"Emma, calm down," Regina bites back, "I am doing what I can, but we have nothing to go on."

"Well, we need to find something," Emma cries, tugging on her hair harshly, "He's dying, Regina—I have to do something." She hates being and feeling this vulnerable, especially in front of others, but she can't do this on her own.

"Okay," Regina says gently (as gently as Regina can be anyway), "Okay. How about you go check on him one more time and then join me at the Sheriff's Station to find clues? You can ask Mary-Margret to sit with Colin for the time being."

It's the best idea they've come up with so far, and no matter how much Emma wants to stay by Colin's side, she can't just sit still and do nothing either.

She needs to find a way to undo whatever happened, and she's not going to find it sitting in his hospital room. "Fine," Emma chokes, "I'll be there soon. And Regina," she hesitates, biting her lip harshly, "Thank you."

She doesn't wait for the other woman to reply and just hangs up, moving through the white, sterile halls in a daze until she's in her husband's private room, trying not to cry (again—damn hormones) as she looks at him. There's a tube in his throat and multiple wires have him hooked to a lot of beeping and flashing machines that just make her feel nauseous and powerless.

"Hey hubby," she chokes when she's at his side, smiling a little at the memory of him blushing every time she calls him that. "You're going to be okay—I promise; I'll find a way." She reaches up and caresses his cheek gently, "Just hang on, okay? Just a little bit longer."

She leans down to kiss his forehead one more time, lingering for a few long moments to savor the feel of his skin beneath her lips, before wiping her tears off her cheeks determinedly and striding towards the door, barely even acknowledging Mary-Margret, who's standing at the door with a sympathetic and gentle look that Emma really just can't stand right now.

She doesn't need sympathy, she needs answers.

And she's going to get them too.

.

.

.

Emma's barely able to control her boiling emotions as she runs straight from the hospital to the Sheriff's station, biting her tongue constantly to avoid exploding at one of the unfortunate souls that get in her way.

She's almost there, just one more corner. She turns and…

Runs straight into Neal, which is not at all good for her rapidly worsening control, who instantly demands to know what is going on. Unfortunately for Neal, Emma's not in any kind of sharing mood, least of all with her least favorite person in town.

"Ugh, I so do not have time for you," she spits, "Get. Out. Of. My. Way." Her little remaining patience is waning, and she's seconds from simply punching him in the face to get him out of her way (and because she's been dying to do just that since he got into town).

She needs to get to work and find something to save Colin.

"I don't have time to listen to any of your crap," she hisses, "My husband is dying and I need to find a way to help him."

"Have you kissed him?" Neal rushes, his eyes wide and pleading, "Look, I don't like the guy, but you love him, and I don't want you to be unhappy," he continues hastily when she glares at him incredulously, "I know you don't believe in the Curse, but Emma," he sighs, "I swear it's the truth. Colin was probably poisoned by some kind of magic; that's why the doctors can't find anything. Emma,” he sighs, fidgeting uncomfortably before continuing, “you need to kiss him. If it's True Love,” Neal visibly chokes on the words, “he'll wake up and he'll be perfectly okay." 

"You're insane," Emma exclaims, shaking her head furiously, "This is not the time for your crazy Curse theories!"

"Ask Regina about it," Neal nearly orders, ignoring her protests, "You'll know if she's lying. Magic is real, and it's the only way to save your husband."

Before she can get another word in, he turns and walks away, leaving her standing in the middle of Main Street. She sighs and leans back against the nearest building, massaging her temples while trying not to think about the overwhelming sense of fear and desperation she feels whenever she's reminded that her husband (her dear, sweet, loving Colin) is dying.

Fuck. She needs to get to the bottom of this ASAP.

She bursts into the station, ignoring the Mayor's startled expression. "Where's Henry?" she nearly shouts at Regina. Emma is slightly distracted by their son’s absence (that is, until she remembers how mad he still is about the Neal-thing)—she really had expected him to be here. 

"He wanted to see Colin," Regina admits reluctantly, "Ruby offered to walk him there."

Emma nods silently, biting her lip as she sinks into a chair, Neal's words repeating themselves in her head again and again, and as ridiculous as she still thinks it is, there's a small, desperate part of her that's willing to believe anything as long as it will help her save her husband.

Dismissing every doubt she has (and there are a lot of them), she eyes her son'sadoptive mother carefully, trying to decide how to bring it up, how to phrase the question so that Regina will have to tell her the truth, no matter what it is.

"Was it you?" She finally blurts, glaring at Regina, "Did you do this?"

"Excuse me?" Regina raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow at her, and Emma almost feels stupid for even considering Neal's words as the truth—but there's enough of an edge to Regina's voice to make Emma suspicious.

Something is going on, and she is going to find out what it is.

"Did you poison my husband?" Emma hisses, slowly getting to her feet, planting her hands on the desk in front of Regina and leaning towards her menacingly. "To keep me from breaking this stupid Curse thing?" She's surprised by how steady her voice is, and though she still feels ridiculous for actually considering that the Curse is a real thing, she refuses to back down now.

She's already down the rabbit hole.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Regina spits through clenched teeth, but something dark and dangerous flashes in her eyes, and it's all the confirmation Emma needs.

She's lying.

The realization is baffling and almost too much to comprehend.

"It's true," Emma breathes, her eyes wide and horrified, her head hurting as she tries to understand what all of this will mean—if it's true that there is a Curse…

That means everything she knows, everything she's always known… None of it is true.

How is she supposed to deal with that?

Regina's staring at her, and for the first time, Emma can clearly see that she's rendered the Mayor (who is also the Evil Queen, apparently) completely speechless.

"You did this?" Emma chokes, feeling immensely foolish and so goddamn hurt—she should've known. There's always been something fishy about Regina, something Emma couldn't quite put her finger on, but never in her wildest dreams would she have guessed that Regina wanted to hurt Colin just to keep Emma from sticking her nose in places it didn't belong.

Regina simply glares back at her defiantly, and something deep within Emma snaps—she just loses it.

"Did you poison my husband?" she screeches, abruptly shoving Regina's table forward into the prim and pressed Mayor, causing her to topple over, the chair clattering against the floor loudly. If she wasn't so angry, Emma might actually feel bad and scold herself for losing her cool, but Regina's smug defiance was the final straw.

"No!" Regina finally spits, scrambling to her feet clumsily, "I did not do anything to your precious pirate. Whoever poisoned him did it without my knowledge."

Emma's slightly surprised by Regina calling Colin a pirate, but shrugs it off and decides she has bigger issues to deal with. "So, the Curse is real?" she questions, eyeing Regina carefully, "You're the reason my life was one goddamn mess after the next?"

"Save the pity party for another time, Miss Swan," Regina spits frostily, "I was under the impression we were trying to find the person who decided to curse you and your husband."

"C—curse us?" Emma chokes, suddenly feeling a whole lot less certain—this shit is insane and she has no clue how to deal with it, because it still feels so crazy and unreal (like it should; they're talking about fairytales, for God's sake).

"Yes, Miss Swan," Regina rolls her eyes, "Curse you. If the pie was delivered to your home, we must assume it was meant to take out the both of you."

Emma swallows thickly, but nods slowly—it makes sense; after the pie had been delivered, whoever sent it would've had no guarantee that they wouldn't both eat it, or anyone else for that matter.

"Okay." She bites her lip and shakes her head, "Why aren't you trying to run me out of town anymore? If all of this—" she waves her hand vaguely and shakes her head, "I can take all of this away from you. Why would you risk losing Henry by befriending me?"

Regina's eyes soften at the mention of their son, and she shrugs. "I don't care about their Happy Endings anymore," she says sincerely, "all I care for is Henry."

It's still wrong, and trying to help Emma now just for Henry's sake doesn't make everything Regina did in the past right, but… Emma knows what it's like to make bad decisions and regret them later. She supposes she can give Regina the second chance Colin gave her all those years ago.

"So what do we do now?" She says slowly, pulling her phone from her pocket to make sure she doesn't have any missed calls from the hospital.

"Well, first things first," Regina chuckles, "We get you to the hospital so you can kiss your pirate and then ask him who gave him the stupid pie in the first place."

"It's magic," Emma exclaims exasperatedly, "There can't be that many people who can still use magic; I mean, they'd have to know who they really are, right?" She doesn't dare think about kissing Colin and everything magically fixing itself (she's not stupid, and she's read Henry's book, she knows that they all expect True Love's Kiss will just fix him, but she can't face the possibility that it might not), so she focuses on the only thing she does control; finding whoever did this to him.

"It shouldn't be possible at all," Regina frowns, "This is a world without magic. One of the very few."

"So what am I supposed to do?" Emma exclaims exasperatedly, "I can't just sit back and do nothing!"

Regina rolls her eyes, gesturing towards the door. "You do what I told you—go kiss your husband and have him tell us who remembers and tried to kill you both." When she sees Emma hesitate, she actually stares at her, incredulous and slightly amused. "What are you waiting for? He's not going to wake up on his own any time soon."

"I know that," Emma scowls, stomping away stubbornly—she knows she has to try, that she has to believe in how much she loves him and he loves her, but it's terrifying, and she just ….

She can't.

It seems Regina knows her a lot better than Emma ever gave her credit for, because the woman shakes her head and strides forward, grabbing Emma's shoulders and shaking her a little.

If she wasn't so surprised, she might actually hit her for that one.

"Listen to me, Miss Swan," Regina grimaces, "I do not know, nor do I particularly care, why there are still doubts in your mind about the man lying in that hospital being anything other than your True Love. For the love of God, he managed to fall in love with you and find his Happy Ending in the middle of a Curse designed to stop people from finding Happy Endings. I have made many mistakes," Regina looks down, and for the first time, Emma sees something akin to regret flashing in Regina's dark eyes, "including casting this very Curse, and abandoning the chance at True Love because it frightened me. Do not make that same mistake."

Emma can only stare at the woman standing before her, wondering how the hell a woman can get so hurt and damaged she feels the need to take everyone else's Happy Endings away along with her own—but she believes her.

Emma can see the sincerity in Regina's eyes.

Whatever this woman was twenty-eight years ago, whatever she did back then, the woman standing before her now is not that person.

"Help me," Emma nearly orders, "Help me make things right… when the Curse is broken," she glares at Regina when she opens her mouth to protest, "And I will break it; I will reunite my family… I won't let anyone come after you…" She swallows thickly, "But only if you help me now. I don't want Henry to lose his mother."

"Fine," Regina spits, and Emma can see Regina's eyes harden, and she knows that whatever moment of kinship they shared, it's over.

Then, before Emma can think about how she's supposed to just walk into the hospital and kiss her husband and make it all okay—her phone rings.

And her heart drops.

It's Mary-Margret.

Her hands are shaking when she answers. She can't think—she can't breathe.

Mary-Margret's voice is soft and apologetic, and the world drags itself to a stop, screeching to an absolute stillness in a matter of seconds.

She can't breathe, she can't stand, she can't do anything—she doesn't respond to Regina's pleas, doesn't listen to Mary-Margret's frantic voice…

Her phone slips from her numb fingers, crashing onto the floor at the same time as her knees give out.

He's gone—I'm so sorry, he's gone.

Something deep inside of her protests vehemently against the mere idea, refuses to accept it as truth—it can't be true.

She's disoriented and numb, and she can't focus on anything.

She doesn't struggle when Regina forces her to her feet and pulls her from the station.

She doesn't respond to the other woman's curious questions, and simply slumps in the seat of Regina's car, allowing the Mayor to manhandle her like a life-sized doll.

He can't be gone.

Colin—her husband, her best friend, her everything… He can't be gone.

She doesn't remember walking into the hospital, not stopping for explanations or condolences—she doesn't need those.

He's not dead.

She refuses to accept it; when she looks to her right, Colin is supposed to stand right there, by her side, holding her hand and being there; she can't do this without him—he never leaves her; he just doesn't.

And then she sees him.

He's pale and unmoving and there're a million different wires protruding from his body, and it hits her for the first time—he's gone.

He's really gone.

It's like everything around her suddenly stops, minutes dragging by so slowly, she feels like centuries go by—she can't process, she can't deal, she can't think.

It's like a part of her has been ripped away violently, like losing something so vital, she doesn't know how to survive.

It's just so wrong, going against everything she'd been believing for the past six years.

He's supposed to be smiling and joking and snarking and alive—not this.

Never this.

"No," she whispers, her feet dragging as she moves to his side, taking his hand in hers—refusing to flinch at how cold his skin is already— "No, you can't be gone." Tears are rolling down her cheeks freely now, and she doesn't care who's watching anymore.

What could possibly matter anymore?

"Please, don't be gone," she breathes, resting her forehead against his, her tears dripping onto his cheeks, "I love you—I need you. You can't be gone." She lowers her lips to his so softly and so gently, it can't even be called a real kiss.

But it is what it is—a simple, sweet, honest goodbye-kiss.

Something sparks deep inside of her, warming her from the core until it radiates out, meshing with the heat that suddenly radiates from Colin and expanding around them. She breaks the kiss, slightly dazed, and looks around, gaping when she sees the air around them sparkle, rippling as though they have caused a wave, and every single person who's been in the room with them either stumbling or leaning against the walls as though they've been blown aside.

She looks back down at her husband, still not entirely sure what has just happened—it doesn't even register that his eyes are open and that he's staring up at her confusedly.

And then it hits.

"You're awake," she chokes, falling back onto him, snaking her arms around him and holding him tightly, tears rolling down her cheeks all over again (damn those stupid hormones), her entire body humming in satisfaction when his arms come up to hug her back.

"Love," his voice is hoarse and scratchy, "Emma… Emma, I remember."

She chokes a little, leaning back to look at him, unsure what he's talking about. "You remember what?"

His eyes are dark and there's something dangerous lingering in those bright blue eyes she loves so much, "Everything," he hisses, "I remember everything."


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty-One**

Colin… Killian… Hook.

He doesn’t know who he is anymore.

There are too many thoughts, too many memories, too much of everything in his head—there’s so much on his mind, it makes his head ache as it hasn’t ached in many, many years.

Once again, he had been lied to; Regina had promised him a fair chance at taking down Rumpelstiltskin, promised that vengeance would be his if he did her bidding before she cast the Curse. Oh, it is not that he has come to expect anything less; it seems all are under the impression that he is a pirate with naught but revenge on the brain…

Unfortunately for them, he is anything but that.

He knows exactly what he had been doing back then, and why he was doing it.

Now that his memories have returned— _all­_ of them—he can barely control the urge to run straight for the imp’s shop and skewering him with his hook (that is, if he can ever relocate the appendage).

He _needs_ to kill Rumpelstiltskin—he simply _can’t_ rest until he has.

He needs his revenge; before the Curse, it had become much like a crutch he could not walk without.

He didn’t know _how_ to let go of it—he had held onto it for so long—he was not sure if he’d ever find a way to live if he were rid of its constant shadow looming over him. Sometimes, he had caught himself thinking that his thirst for vengeance was as much a part of him as his hook—as his love for his brother and his sister-in-law and even his niece, his darling little Rose.

And for the first time in centuries, he found himself trying to find light, peace.

He didn’t know if he could ever acquire it, or even if he should, but he wanted it nonetheless. He had done things he had sworn never to do—and in trying to hurt Rumpelstiltskin, he had become a monster himself; something he’d never fully realized before.

Guilt had consumed him at the realization. Neither Liam nor Prue would have abided the things he’d sacrificed to avenge their deaths.

And then the Curse had taken him to this world.

And he had lived an entire life, a good life, despite the guilt and pain he had carried over Liam and Prue’s—or Milah, as she had taken to calling herself after they fled the King and the gallows that awaited them in their own kingdom—deaths.

A life in which he had fallen in love; deeply and irrevocably.

Emma.

The Swan girl.

The Savior.

His wife.

His True Love.

She’d infuriated him—and she still does; the nerve on that woman sometimes; defying him, ignoring him, teasing him at every opportunity—but there is something about her that, even now, triggers the will deep inside of him to be more than a revenge-driven moron once again.

And Gods, does he love her.

The love he had felt for her during the Curse has not diminished—he doesn’t think it candiminish at all, no matter what the circumstance—but it is…

Different.

He is no longer the sweet, heartbroken man she hadfallen in love with; he is far more.

And he doesn’t want to wait around for her to decide she doesn’t want to be with a revenge-driven pirate. And she _will_ decide that—of course she will. He will not give up on his quest to kill Rumpelstiltskin; he refuses to—he owes it to his brother and to Prue to see that their deaths are avenged, and he can’t give that up, not even for Emma.

But he does not expect her to accept it, nor does he expect her to allow him anywhere near her family.

And though he loves Emma, and wishes to fight for her, he believes she deserves better than a three-hundred-year-old, one-handed pirate with more commitment issues than she herself had when they’d first met.

For a moment, after she had revived him with her kiss, he had thought that Emma might be the one person that he could actually trust—that he could feel at ease with—that he could learn to love without losing.

And then her parents had caught up with them, and he had seen the look in their eyes; they wanted him far away from their daughter—and the worst of it was that he could not fault them.

Had he retained his memories at the time he met Emma, he would have stayed well away from her, even though she had held his heart from the moment he bumped into her at Starbucks. She probably always would, even though he knows he really should stay away from her.

He stares ahead blankly, closing his eyes and allowing the soft rushing of the waves to soothe his pained mind—he’dleft Emma and Henry in the town’s square earlier, with her parents and the Queen (who is not quite so Evil anymore, apparently), kissing Emma’s forehead and promising her he simply needed some time to think, to process the many new—old—memories.

She had not been happy, but accepted his explanation and told him she’d meet him at home—told him there was a lot they need to talk about.

He’s sure there is.

Their Kiss being the reason several Cursesbroke at once being one of those things.

His ‘real’ identity being another.

He cannot, though, for the life of him, imagine a life in which he is no longer by her side. But he realizes it is inevitable—she’ll expect him to relinquish his revenge, and he cannot.

He will not.

Liam and Prue will never rest peacefully lest their unfair deaths be avenged—and he is the only one left; the only one who knew them, who loved them, who cares. No matter his love, his alliance, his loyalty to Emma… He needs to do this.

And to do it, he needs to let Emma go, regardless of how it will shatter his own heart.

He stares out at the sea once again, and despite the many people still bustling about the docks, despite knowing the love of his life is waiting for him to return to her, he has never—not once in his three hundred years—felt more alone.

.

.

.

Everything is murky and confusing and there’s too much happening at the same time, and all she can really grasp is that her husband is alive and well…

And they broke a Curse.

It was all true.

Everything Henry had been trying to tell her, had been trying to tell _them_ , had been true.

She has parents now.

It’s unnerving, and she wishes Colin—or Killian, as she supposes she should call him now—would still be by her side, holding her hand while she’s trying to process everything. He’d been quiet and withdrawn when they’d left the hospital and he’d asked her if it was okay if he took a moment for himself, to deal with everything he’d remembered, and though she was a little disappointed, she does realize that having an entire life’s worth of memories coming back to him has to be disorienting.

So she’d let him go, telling him to meet her at home; they do need to talk about a lot of things… including the baby (she’s not even sure he remembers, he hasn’t mentioned it at all, he’s barely even looked at her), their marriage, the damn True Love’s Kiss and what the hell all of this means for them.

She’s only vaguely listening to Mary-Margret’s excited babbling, and slightly unnerved by Henry’s sudden turn-around—he won’t stop hugging her, ever since he realized the Curse had been broken—and David’s enthusiastic inputs.

She knows they’re her parents, and she knows they’re happy and excited and everything, but she’s tired and she really just wants to go home and get some peace and quiet and some time to deal with all of the sudden changes in her life.

She’s not good with change, never has been.

“We should go back to the Diner,” David finally offers, gesturing around Main Street, “There’s so much to talk about, so many people we need to greet again…” He smiles at her, genuinely and excitedly, “People _you_ should meet, Emma.”

Emma swallows thickly, her heart squeezing painfully; she doesn’t _want_ to have to do this right now, doesn’t want to have to deal with the pressure, the expectations, the questions… The whole concept of having a family, _parents_. It’s all so foreign and unknown and _terrifying_ that all she wants to do is run and hide.

“I should go see if Colin’s okay, though,” she says slowly, hoping the excuse will be enough, hoping they’ll realize she just needs a fucking minute—she’ll have enough to deal with when she finds her wayward husband; she doesn’t need the added pressure of her parents trying to make up for lost time; not now.

Henry is already nodding along with her, and Regina seems to understand too—she never would’ve guessed she’d get along with the Evil Queen better than her own parents—but Mary-Margret and David look completely scandalized, as though offended by the mere suggestion, and Emma feels a twinge of (unwarranted) guilt in the pit of her stomach.

“Emma,” Mary-Margret exclaims, “We have to spend time as a _family_. Surely Colin can wait a little while?”

Emma blanches, and she has to close her eyes and count to ten, praying for patience. She realizes this is confusing and chaotic and amazing for all of them, but just because they’re her parents doesn’t mean she’s just going to dismiss her husband—who nearly _died_ less than two hours ago—just so they can spend some _family time_ together.

Besides, Colin is part of that family.

“I’m sorry,” she glares at the woman she considers her best friend (she can’t think about her actually being her mother), “Are you implying my _husband_ isn’t a part of that family?”

Everyone—and she does mean _everyone_ —falls silent, staring at Mary-Margret and David, waiting tensely for the answer. Emma glares at the pair of them, more than a little unimpressed with their attitude—what, now they remember they’re royalty, suddenly Colin’s not good enough anymore?

“Emma,” David says pleadingly, “There’s so much you don’t know yet. _Colin_ is a part of our family, but…” He hesitates, “He’s not a good man. He was a wanted man in many kingdoms before the Curse came.”

Emma raises an eyebrow at them, refusing to let anyone but Colin tell her about his past—she knows perfectly well that stories can be misconstrued and sound wrong without context (it’s happened to her more than once). “He’s my husband,” she states slowly, “He’s done more for me than you could possibly imagine; _he_ is my family— _Henry_ is.”

“We’re your parents,” David exclaims heatedly, “He’s a lawless pirate! You’re _our_ daughter!”

“And she is _my_ wife!” Emma jumps when her Colin’s voice erupts from behind her, turning to see him striding towards them, his eyes dark and flashing with anger, “I will not have you take my wife from me to suit your false royal sensibilities—you’re the sperm donor, mate. No matter your own desires, that does not make you her father.”

“Okay,” Emma tries to diffuse the situation, grabbing her husband’s arm, slightly startled by the raw anger in his voice—she can already see David going red, and she does not need a fight between her father and her husband on top of everything else. “Let’s not get carried away… Colin, let’s just go home, okay? We’ll see you guys later—” She eyes Mary-Margret sharply, finally seeing understanding dawning in the small teacher’s eyes, “When everyone’s had a bit of time to calm down.”

Colin is straining against her hold, his eyes still fixed on David—if looks could kill, she’d have two dead bodies on her hands by now—but when Henry grabs his good hand, he seems to deflate, all of his anger seeping away.

“Come on,” Henry smiles, “We can go to the Jolly—that is what she’s called right? And she’s your ship, isn’t she? Like I thought she was—”

Henry continues rambling as he starts dragging Colin towards the docks after waving at Regina, and Emma can see tensions drain away little by little as Colin and Henry wander off further.

“This is _not_ okay,” she hisses at her parents, “I know you are… happy, and excited—but you don’t get to judge the man who has been there for me every single step of the way. If you can’t accept that—” Emma swallows thickly, but steels her resolve and looks both of her parents straight in the eye, “—then we can’t have a relationship. I will not abandon my husband based on things he did long ago. I did not break this Curse just so everyone could pick right back up where they left off with stupid feuds and wars, and I will not stand for it. If you can’t accept that, I will take Colin and Henry and go back to Boston and leave you to it.”

And with that, she turns, following her son and her husband—they’re pretty far ahead by now—as quickly as she can without actually running after them.

Henry is still babbling excitedly when she reaches them, and Colin is uncharacteristically silent. She takes his fake hand in hers, hoping it’ll offer him some consolation (it usually does), but he doesn’t respond to her at all this time, and it only makes her feel worse.

Something feels off _, wrong_ , but she can’t put her finger on it, and it’s not until they’re standing in front of the Jolly Roger, her eyes falling upon the hunched figure standing by the helm, that she realizes what it is.

“Colin?”

Her voice is clear, and echoes across the dock and several things happen at the same time.

The man standing by the helm looks up, his blue eyes wide and confused when the hand she’d been holding is ripped away violently, Henry’s suddenly panicked cry startling her—when she’s turned around, Colin is no longer the one standing next to her; in his place stands a middle-aged, well-dressed and groomed woman, her hand raised, keeping Henry trapped in some kind of magical choke-hold.

Emma’s not stupid; she recognizes the shivers running up and down her spine as magic—it almost feels the same as it did when she kissed Colin and broke the Curse.

“Who are you?” She demands when a short, stout man appears at the woman’s shoulder, a gun in his—trembling—hands and a flaming red hat askew on top of his head, just as Colin (the real one; she can feel goose bumps on her skin where his hand brushes past hers) comes to a stop next to her.

“Cora,” he hisses, “Let the lad go; what is it you want?”

“Oh, Captain,” the woman sighs, shaking her head as though she’s reprimanding a naughty child, “how the mighty have fallen, do you not agree? Where is the fearsome man that swore to hunt down the man that murdered his family?”

Emma feels Colin stiffen at her side, and though she _really_ wants to turn around and demand an explanation, she _can’t_ because the woman still has Henry and she has no idea what to do or how to get him out of there and somewhere safe.

The woman seems completely oblivious—though it’s possible she just doesn’t care—to Emma’s inner turmoil, and continues talking, provoking Colin, whose entire body is tightly coiled and tense, like he’s just waiting for the perfect opportunity to jump and attack—it’s only seconds later that she realizes that’s probably not too far from the truth.

Slowly, she moves her hand in his and squeezes it tightly, keeping him right where he is, by her side.

“ _Who_ are you?” She repeats angrily, “And what the hell do you want from us?” She eyes Henry quickly, to make sure he’s okay—he’s fine, just can’t move—before returning to glare at the woman before them.

“Ah ah, my Sweet,” the woman coos, “Not so hasty—I am no fool, and indulging you with my plans and motives would be utterly foolish. I will, though,” she continues, that disgusting smirk still ever-present on her face, “give you my name—”

“I already know your name, you raving bitch,” Colin hisses, “I couldn’t care less about your evil plans—give us the lad back.” His accent is thicker, Emma notices off-handedly, though her eyes are drawn back towards her son, who’s struggling in his invisible restraints.

“Oh, Captain,” Cora—she remembers now, Colin _had_ called her Cora earlier—sneers, “Such a pity. You would have made an excellent ally. Now you’re just another obstacle.” It’s the way she says it that completely unnerves Emma, the way her eyes glint coldly as she appraises Colin. “Fortunately,” Cora continues blandly, “one that is easily removed. Mr. Smee, if you please?”

Before Emma or Colin get the chance to wonder what she’s talking about, Smee—who she assumes is the man in the red cap—raises the gun, gives Colin an apologetic look and whispers, “Sorry, Captain,” as he pulls the trigger; the sound of the gunshot echoing loudly across the otherwise empty abandoned docks.

There’s complete and utter silence for one, single, long heartbeat… And then all hell breaks loose.

Emma and Henry both stare at Colin in horror, their eyes fixed on the small, almost-insignificant looking hole that appears in his chest, a ring of red blood seeping through his shirt as he stares down at it, his fingers trembling when he raises them to touch the treacherously small wound. His eyes meet hers, and she chokes at the broad myriad of emotions she can see in his eyes, ranging from fear and panic to desperation and anger.

“Emma,” he breathes, a small bubble of blood forming in the corner of his mouth, falling to his knees. It’s almost as though it’s happening in slow-motion, like everything she does is too slow, not enough, and she sinks to her knees with him, cradling him in her lap, desperately pressing on the wound to stop it from bleeding, to help him _somehow_.

“No, no, no, no,” she chokes, “No, you’re going to be okay, it’s not that bad.”

She’s deliberately not looking at her son, who’s crying and begging—she can’t look at him too, because she’ll break and she can’t break now, she needs to get them all out of this mess—keeping her eyes on Colin’s, trying not to see how they’re dimming little by little.

“Swan,” he breathes, raising his blood-covered fingers to touch hers, resting his hand on hers, “I love you, darling.”

“No,” Emma sniffs, a tear rolling down her cheek, “No, you can’t say goodbye, you’re going to be fine.” She raises her free hand and cups his cheek, leaning forward to rest her forehead against his, “Just a little bit longer, I promise, we’ll be fine.”

From the corner of her eye, she sees Cora’s hand move, but by the time she realizes what she’s doing, it’s too late, and Colin’s weight disappears from her arms in a puff of thick, purple and black smoke.

“No,” she exclaims, stumbling to her feet clumsily, towards Cora and her son and the slimy little rat that shot her husband, “Where did you send him?” Before she can move closer though, Emma finds herself trapped in thin air, it’s like she’s being crushed between four solid walls, though she’s surrounded by nothing but air.

“Somewhere he can die in peace,” Cora smiles coldly, “Do not worry, he will be in no more pain. Now, onto the actual business at hand…” She pulls a small, translucent _thing_ —is that a bean?—from her pocket and tosses it over the edge of the dock, “Say goodbye to your son, Miss Sw—” she stops and grins maliciously, “I’m sorry, I mean Mrs. _Brody_.”

Emma’s entire body erupts into goose bumps, and she can hear the water and magic mix crackling, and she can see the lights flashing over the edge of the dock “No,” she spits. “Not Henry too. You already took my husband—you ruined my life already. Leave. You’re not getting _my_ son too.”

Cora’s cold, chilling laughter echoes over the docks and makes her cringe, struggling against whatever magic is holding her in place, crying out Henry’s name—he needs her to be strong, to protect him and she _can’t_ —she couldn’t even protect Colin (what kind of Savior is she?)—and she’s never felt more useless and helpless in her life.

“Please,” Emma begs, “Please, let him go. He’s just a kid.”

“Ah,” Cora smiles pleasantly, “If only that were true. I do wish you well, Emma. You have helped me finish an assignment centuries in the making. Goodbye.”

They jump—Emma can feel the precise moment they disappear, because the invisible walls keeping her in place dissipate and she crashes onto the hard concrete, skinning her hands, her heart—that Colin had worked to repair, to cherish, to love—breaks, smashing into a million pieces, completely beyond repair.

She’s cold, and hurt, and alone, and she doesn’t know what to do—so she cries.

Her hand moves almost on its own accord, cradling her small, barely noticeable baby bump tenderly.

She can’t do this.

She can’t do this on her own.

She doesn’t know how long she lays there, crying on the cold concrete, before she pushes herself up, getting to her feet and wiping her bloody hands on her shirt. She can’t do this on her own—she needs to get Henry back, and she needs to see to it that the bitch who killed her husband is stopped before she can hurt anyone else.

She’s going to win this.

And no one is going to stop her.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

The silence that falls when she enters the Diner is deafening.

Everyone is staring at her, and it’s not until she looks down at herself that she realizes _why_. Her jeans is torn and dirty and smeared with blood, both her own and—the memory nearly makes her knees buckle with the intensity of her heartache—Colin’s, and she probably has mascara smeared all over her face.

She doesn’t care.

“Who can tell me anything about a witch named Cora?” She asks, slightly surprised by how steady her voice is, “Anything at all.”

“Emma,” Neal approaches her slowly, his eyes wide and concerned and goddamnit, she doesn’t have _time_ for this. “Emma, what happened?” She glares at him, ignoring how her entire body is shaking, “I need to know who Cora is and what the hell her deal was back in Fairytale land now, and I don’t have _time_ for your stupid questions!”

She’s yelling by the end of her sentence, tears of frustration welling up in her eyes—she just needs someone to tell her who the bitch is so she can take her down and get Henry back.

She can’t stop to think about _anything_ else.

Just Henry.

She vaguely realizes that Neal is talking again, and she’s never wanted to punch someone in the face more than she wants to punch him, just so he’ll _stop_ , so he’ll let this go and let her find someone, anyone who can help her get her son back.

She needs to find a way to get her family back together.

Her… Family.

Her parents.

“Where are Mary Margret and David?” She asks, again, addressing the entire Diner, still ignoring Neal—though it’s getting increasingly difficult, with his hand tugging on her elbow insistently. “Stop that,” she hisses at Neal, dragging her arm out of his reach angrily.

He doesn’t get to touch her, or talk to her.

“Emma,” Mother Superior approaches her and offers her a confused, concerned frown, “What is going on? What happened?”

“Cora,” Emma says, her voice calm, void of emotion and empty—like she feels. “She…” she hesitates, frowning a little, “I think she did a spell or something so she’d look like Colin, to draw me and Henry away from everyone else. When we ran into Colin, _my_ Colin, the real one, she dropped the spell and took Henry—she was _toying_ with us,” there’s a little more bite in her voice now, and she tries to push down the almost overwhelming feel of desperation as the scene plays out before her again, “and when Colin refused to play she—” she chokes, squeezing her eyes shut to hide the burning tears in her eyes, to hide how much she’s _hurting_ , “—she ordered some little guy to shoot him… Then she made him disappear… He’s—”

She stops and looks down, glaring at the worn tips of her boots, “he’s probably gone by now. I have no idea where she sent him—and then she took Henry.”

A tense silence falls in the Diner, and everyone is staring at Emma, at a loss of words—the joyous atmosphere long gone. “Where’s Regina?” Emma finally demands, glaring down at Mother Superior impatiently, “She’ll know what to do.”

“The Evil Wench went to hide in her lair,” Leroy spits, glaring at Emma as though she’s personally offended him, “We don’t need her for anything.”

Emma regards him coldly, and it’s the very first time since she’s gotten to Storybrooke that she gets annoyed by how narrow-minded they can be. “I _do_ need her,” she spits back, “Or do you happen to know another magic-using person in this town who has an interest in _saving_ Henry?”

“Actually,” Neal pipes up, wincing a little at the death-glare he receives from Emma, “I think I might.” He takes a deep breath and continues, “Rumpelstiltskin can help us—he taught Regina about magic, if anyone would know how to go about saving Henry, it’d be him.”

Emma stares at him, unsure what to make of his sudden knowledge, spitting, “And why would he want to help us save Henry? I’m not making any fucking deals with him.”

Neal bites his lip and shakes his head, closing his eyes like he’s trying to prepare himself for what he’s going to say—which doesn’t make sense, and really irritates Emma (she doesn’t have time for this, she needs to get moving _now_ )—before sighing, “Because Henry’s his grandson.”

.

.

.

_He feels oddly light, his body no longer anchored to the earth, his mind light and unclouded. It is the oddest sensation he has ever experienced in his entire life—which is quite the feat, for a 334 year-old pirate._

_His body feels oddly numb and he can’t decide whether he should be fighting the hands that seem to be pulling him back down or if he should let them._

_Honestly, he feels quite content here—there isn’t a trace of pain or regret or sadness in him for the first time in many, many years, and he quite likes feeling this free._

_This is the kind of freedom he had felt when Liam took him sailing for the very first time—the promise of the endlessness of the ocean, the entire world open to them; they had been happy, free._

_He’s longed for that feeling for the past three hundred years—and nothing has ever come close since._

_The hands that are pulling at him grow more insistent, and it irritates—he simply wants to be left in peace, is that too much to ask?_

_He can faintly hear voices—frantic, panicked exclamations that make him frown._

_One voice though—one, single, beautiful voice—rings out above all others, and though it still annoys him, he feels slight longing at the sound of it. He just wishes he can hear everything that’s being said—perhaps that will help; perhaps that will make more sense._

_“You’re going to be okay—it’s not that bad—just a little bit longer…”_

_The words make little to no sense to him, and that aggravates him, because he feels an intense and inexplicable longing being awoken within him with every word that is spoken._

_The voice is so familiar, so hauntingly beautiful, it makes him stop fighting the hands that are trying to pull him back down for a moment._

_He knows that voice…_

_The very second her name flashes through his mind, a jolt of pain rocks through his body, and the feeling of floating dissipates slightly—he no longer feels as though he has any control left over his body; it feels heavier than it ever has, cold creeping into his every pore when he remembers Cora’s face—if Emma is still there alone, without him, she is in danger._

_She needs him—the lad needs him; he needs to fight to get back to them._

_His love stands no chance against Cora on her own._

_But then, once again, the jolt of pain crashes through his entire body, leaving him panting heavily, unsure of what is happening—the faint, light feeling he felt earlier; the freedom that comes along with it; tugq at him again, and, exhausted, he allows it to draw him away once again, enjoying how carefree it makes him feel._

_He cannot aid his family when he is incapacitated, when he is tired and hurt—surely Emma will understand his delay in responding? The light will surely guide him back to her—to his lovely Swan. And he does love her—as Hook or Killian or Colin…_

_It matters not._

_He loves Emma with all that he is._

_And surely, if he is free, and happy, she would be too?_

_His thoughts are swirling confusedly in his hazy mind, as he is pulled from his choice—no more lightness, no more hands trying to hold him down._

_Only darkness._

.

.

.

**That Same Day—later that afternoon—the Jolly Roger**

Emma closes the door to the captain’s cabin slowly, making sure not to slam the door—she doesn’t want to draw any attention to herself. After Neal’s little _revelation_ in the Diner, she sent him off to get his father (she still can’t believe that) while she went to fill in Regina and her parents.

Regina, understandably, freaked out, but was able to clue Emma into _who_ Cora was.

She’s still a little shaken at the many new family revelations she’s gotten today—Rumpelstiltskin’s her son’s grandfather, Cora, the woman who kidnapped him and had someone shoot his  stepdad, his grandmother, his other grandparents Prince fucking Charming and Snow White, his stepdad Captain Hook...

They eventually agreed that they _had_ to follow Henry to wherever Cora has taken him, and Emma had immediately suggested taking her husbands—though she supposes it’s hers now—ship, realizing that they probably couldn’t just take the Bug and drive there.

And that’s how she ended up in here.

Alone.

While her parents, Neal, Rumpelstiltskin and Regina are up on deck, arguing about pointless, stupid things she doesn’t give a fuck about—she just wants to stop wasting time and get to her son. She jumps onto the small single bed, taking a deep breath, her head falling forward into her hands almost of its own accord.

Her skin doesn’t feel right.

Something’s off with the skin on her hands, and she’s afraid to look.

Emma swallows thickly, glancing down at her—shaking—hands, a shuddering gasp falling from her lips when it hits her; her husbands dried blood is on her hands.

Colin’s _blood_ is still sticking to her hands.

“Oh God,” she chokes, her breathing quickening—her husband’s _gone_ , her son has been kidnapped and she has no idea where to start or how to get either of them back.

She can still feel the hot pulsing of Colin’s heart—desperately trying to pump around the bullet lodged in his chest—against her fingertips, the hot stickiness of his blood being pumped out through the small wound, hear his wheezing breathing, feel the same desperation and despair she felt when she had to watch and feel him die in her arms.

‘ _They’re not both gone_ ,’ she winces, her heart stuttering as the words run through her mind, ‘ _Focus—find her, save Henry. Focus on saving Henry. Henry’s all that matters. Henry and the baby_.’ She doesn’t feel the tears running down her cheeks.

She doesn’t care.

She just… She _needs_ to break—she needs to cry and wail and hide in the bed her husband had slept in for years before he knew her; she needs to hold onto his memory, for herself, for Henry and for the little boy that’s growing in her stomach.

She knows it’s too early to know… But she knows.

And she needs to hold on for his sake.

His and Henry’s.

The tremors running all over her body become nearly uncontrollable, and she feels disgusted—disgusted by Neal, who keeps trying to hug her and touch her and comfort her when she’s up on deck and all she wants him to do is to back the fuck off, disgusted by Cora and most of all, disgusted by her own weakness.

By how easily Cora managed to break her entire world.

How easily she managed to break _her_.

And she is—she is broken.

She’s not sure how she’s not literally falling to pieces on the floor, how she’s not shattering, like her heart did when both Henry and Colin disappeared and there was _nothing_ she could do to help them, how she managed to keep it together long enough to get everyone together and onto the ship, to save Henry, to get her son back.

The ship almost makes her feel worse.

Almost.

She stops thinking at that.

She stops feeling.

She just sits on her husband’s bed and cries, loathing herself for the mistakes she made, loathing herself for not being strong enough to protect her husband and her son.

She was _so_ stupid, for believing that her life could be falling into place, for believing that maybe, she could have all the things she’d always wanted; love, a family…

The real deal.

She should have known better.  

She’s overwhelmed by how much it _hurts_ , overwhelmed by her own inability to push it away, her inability to pretend it’s not hurting her at all.  

So she gives in.

And she cries.

And cries.

Until she has nothing left to cry about—until there is nothing left within her.

She feels empty.

She doesn’t know how to keep moving, how to keep going, but she has to.

And she’s going to.

It’s not just her anymore—she has Henry and the baby and her parents to worry about. She’s the Savior, and they’re all counting on her, and she can’t let them down.

It’s that attitude that keeps her on her feet when she moves above deck again, apprehensively letting Gold prick her finger to hone in on Henry’s location, ignoring Neal and her parents being overly concerned (why is it they insist on trying to coddle her?) while the image forms on the white globe.

“Where is that?” She asks with a frown—it doesn’t at all look like anything she’s seen on a map from this world.

Gold frowns and sighs heavily. “A place we should all avoid.”

Emma glares at him and spits, “My son is there. We’re going. Where. Is. It?”

“Neverland,” Gold sighs, “he’s in Neverland.”

She never thought the land she’d loved as a child could sound so ominous.

It’s just Neverland.

How bad can it be?

.

.

.

**The Jolly Roger (at the helm)  
 _(The same day—later that afternoon)_**

“How far along are you?”

Emma smiles tiredly, looking up at her mother from beneath her eyelashes. She doesn’t ask how Mary-Margret knows—she’s the one who helped Emma realize in the first place. “A few weeks,” she says softly, her head lolling back against the, smooth, cool wood. She doesn’t resist when Mary-Margret sits down next to her—she knows she’s probably just worried; Emma supposes she can’t blame her either.

She knows Mary-Margret has never seen her like this before.

Detached.

Cold.

Efficient.

The way she needs to be to hold it together long enough to get to Henry, take out Cora and bring her son back home.

“Did you start telling people yet?” Mary-Margret inquires carefully, stretching out her legs to mirror Emma’s position. Her voice is quiet and careful, and if Emma had enough energy, she’d probably snap at her about it, but she doesn’t have the energy to care or to get angry about her mother trying to bond with her at this particular moment.

“No,” Emma replies evenly, “I hadn’t even told Colin yet.”

“Oh.”

Emma knows Mary-Margret is waiting for tears, for pain, for emotion—something of a reaction to the fact that she had let her husband die in her arms and done nothing to protect him—but she doesn’t have any tears left to cry.

Not now.

She did her crying earlier, in the privacy of her husband’s cabin, and she’s done now.

She doesn’t have time to deal with feeling.

“We’re going to get him back, you know?” Mary-Margret offers, “Henry. And we’ll find Colin too. Wherever he is.”

“He’s _dead_ ,” Emma spits, turning to glare at the dark-haired woman, “It doesn’t matter anymore. He’s gone. We need to focus on getting Henry back, nothing else.” In sharp contrast to her harsh words, her hand is smoothly rubbing over her slightly protruding stomach—she’s not showing; not at all; but she can feel her hardened uterus already, and it’s a comforting feeling.

It helps her focus.

It helps her stay calm—soothing the waves of anger and frustration and messed up hormones just waiting to be taken out on some poor unsuspecting soul.

“I’m sorry, you know?” Mary-Margret says after a long silence, “About what your father and I said… About Colin. It wasn’t fair of us to judge him like that—your father agrees. He was going to apologize but then…”

“But then an evil witch turned up, kidnapped my son and killed my husband,” Emma deadpans, “Thanks for the reminder.”

“Emma,” Mary-Margret sighs, but Emma’s tired of the conversation (and she’s not really willing to snap at Mary-Margret of all people) and gets to her feet, shaking her hair from her eyes, “I really don’t want to hear it. I know you guys are happy to have your memories back and that you want to do the whole mother-daughter bonding thing, but…”

She takes a deep breath and continues, “When I get Henry back, I’m leaving Storybrooke. I’m going back to Boston, and I’m going to make damn sure that _my_ children aren’t in any danger anymore.”

Mary-Margret’s expression is aghast, and Emma can almost hear the reprimanding words before Mary-Margret says them out loud. “But your family is all in Storybrooke! We can keep you all safe, honey!”

“No,” Emma snaps, “No, you can’t. _Nothing_ ever happened to me or Colin before we came here. Now my husband is _gone_ and I’ll be raising two children by myself. You’re _not_ family,” her eyes are pricking with tears she didn’t know she had anymore, “He was. Henry is—my baby is. And I have to put them first. Storybrooke obviously isn’t safe for us, so I’ll leave. And nothing you say is going to change that.” With that, she turns around and stomps down the stairs again, resorting to hiding in Colin’s cabin again, until it’s time to leave.

Mary-Margret stares after her daughter for a long time, trying to process everything her daughter had thrown at her—trying to decide whether she’s hurt or not.

If she _should_ be hurt or not.

Her heart clenches painfully as the blank, emotionless expression on Emma’s face flashes before her eyes again, and guilt swirls deep in the pit of her stomach—she knows that she and Charming are partly responsible for ever giving anyone the opportunity to hurt their little girl; for giving someone the opportunity to break Emma so badly, she refused to let anyone in again.

It feels like it’s her fault.

Like she should have tried harder to join Emma to escape the Curse.

It’s not until David walks up to her that she looks away from the ladder her daughter descended, blinking away hot, burning tears—they hurt her baby…

Her sweet baby girl had been hurt _so_ much because they gave her up she refuses to even consider them family. She knows Emma didn’t outright say it, but the implication had been there—she’s not stupid.

“Oh, Charming,” she sobs, turning to collapse into his arms, “Emma hates us. She’s so mad and hurt and I don’t know how to help her!” Her fingers clench in his shirt, and she keeps shaking her head when he tries to offer her platitudes.

“She’s leaving,” Mary-Margret sniffles, “When we get Henry back, she’ll take him and the baby and go back to Boston and we’ll never see them again and I can’t even blame her!” She can feel her husband go rigid and for a moment, she thinks he understands why she’s so upset—and then she realizes what else she let slip.

The baby.

No one but her had known of Emma’s pregnancy.

“Charming,” she starts warningly when she sees his eyes zero in on the ladder, “You should leave her alone, she’s grieving. She doesn’t need her father grilling her about this.” Before Charming can protest or insist or just ignore her, Regina appears at the helm, eyes glittering angrily—though Mary-Margret can see the fear for Henry’s life lingering in her step-mother’s dark eyes.

“Gold managed to find a bean. We’re ready to leave.”

“Of course,” Mary-Margret nods immediately, knowing that arguing is the last thing she should be doing right now. “Emma’s still down in Colin’s quarters… Should I—”

“No,” Regina replies empathically, “No. Leave her be—she needs time to grieve. There’s nothing she can do up here anyway.” Mary-Margret stares at Regina in surprise, but  nods along anyway—she supposes she should’ve seen this coming; Regina and Emma seemed to have struck up some kind of camaraderie, even before Regina helped Emma break the Curse.

“Hey guys,” Neal joins them at the helm, “Where’s Emma?”

There’s something about Neal that Snow doesn’t quite trust, and she blurts, “Sleeping,” without thinking, “She was exhausted… She needs the rest.”

“Oh,” Neal says, “Of course. It’s just… Sailing through a portal might get a little bumpy; she’ll need to hold onto something.” He glances at his father, who is currently tying a thick rope around his waist, anchoring himself to  the mast. “I could go—”

“I’ll go,” Mary-Margret interrupts, “You get us through that portal safely, I’ll see to Emma.” She doesn’t know Neal—not at all—but she remembers Emma complaining about him once when they were having dinner together at Granny’s, and she doesn’t want her daughter to have to worry about Neal as well as everything else.

Emma’s got enough to deal with as it is.

Mary-Margret turns around and pecks Charming’s lips, smiling gently at her husband before hurrying down to the captain’s cabin, knocking before entering the room. Emma’s curled up on the single bed in the corner, wrapped in the sheets and what looks like a large black shirt—which she guesses is one of Colin’s old ones.

“We’re getting ready to leave,” she says softly, moving into the room carefully, “Neal said it might be a bit of a bumpy ride, so you might need to hold onto something.”

Emma doesn’t respond, just continues staring at the wall.

Mary-Margret looks around the sparsely decorated cabin curiously, from the bed Emma is sitting on to a desk cluttered with maps and what looks like pencils and a compass, to the large wardrobe and cabinet.

“It still smells like him,” Emma’s hoarse voice snaps Mary-Margret’s attention back to her, “Even after thirty years… How is that possible?” She doesn’t know what to say, so she just moves towards her daughter, gently taking one of Emma’s hands in hers, squeezing it gently.

“It hurts,” Emma whispers, her voice breaking on the last word, “It hurts so much. I feel like … Like I’m slowly dying on the inside too.” Mary-Margret blinks furiously against the tears burning in her eyes, her heart breaking for Emma.

“I know, honey,” Mary-Margret whispers, tightening her grip on Emma’s hand (Emma doesn’t look away from the wall; not once), “But you’re not alone this time. I promise, we’re right here.”

Finally, Emma’s eyes move away from the wall, meeting Mary-Margret’s slowly—and Mary-Margret nearly chokes at the deadened, pained, empty look in Emma’s eyes. “Don’t you get it?” Emma whispers brokenly, “I’m always alone. That’s my destiny.”

She looks down before adding, “The Savior’s fate… Forever to be alone.” She offers Mary-Margret a hollow smile and chokes, “Thanks for that, by the way.”

Before Mary-Margret can respond, the ship jerks forward abruptly and she stumbles, nearly tumbling into Emma’s lap before she can steady herself. Emma’s eyes are directed at the ceiling now, her lips curling up into a soft, sad smile as she whispers, “I’m coming, Henry. I’m coming. Never stop believing that, kid. I’m on my way. I’ll always find you.”


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

**The Jolly Roger, Neverland  
 _(Two Weeks Later)_**

The air is thick, humid, heavy with despair.

Everyone aboard the Jolly is tired (and why wouldn’t they be, after daily explorations of the jungle and being kept awake at night by the cries of the Lost Boys) and they’ve been arguing more and more, about the littlest and stupidest of things.

Emma is suffering most out of all of them, and everyone knows it.

While it’s obvious Rumpelstiltskin couldn’t care less about Emma’s health or her state  of mind, everyone else is very worried—Mary-Margret is still baffled by how much Regina seems to care—actually stopping their arguments long enough to try to come with a way to help Emma cope.

Both mentally and physically.

The long treks through the jungle are especially hard on Emma, with the first real pregnancy symptoms making an appearance—Emma’s tired all the time.

It’s obvious.

“There has to be something we can do,” Mary-Margret pleads desperately, “Emma can’t keep doing this much longer—there has to be a way to narrow down the area to search, a way to locate where they are.” She and Charming exchange a worried glance; Emma’s insistence on day-long explorations and a break-neck pace might actually lead to her miscarrying the baby, and Mary-Margret’s sure Emma wouldn’t survive losing the baby too.

“We’ve been over this,” Regina grumbles, “I want to find Henry just as much as Emma does—but my mother is a very accomplished witch, and whoever she’s working with has a way of blocking our magic!”

“She’s going to lose the baby,” Mary-Margret exclaims, “She’s going to push herself too far trying to find Henry and lose the baby—we can’t let that happen!” She’s terrified for Emma’s sake, and she’s convinced her daughter can’t make sound decisions while grieving her husband.

“Well, I, for one, wouldn’t at all mourn the loss of the pirate’s filthy spawn,” Rumpelstiltskin casually mentions, leaning back in his chair with a completely inappropriate grin.

“Papa!” Neal exclaims angrily, “We’re talking about a child’s life—this is no place for your petty grudges.” Everyone turns to stare at Neal—honestly, all he’d really shown interest in over the past two weeks was getting close to Emma—unsure of what to say after that outburst.

It had been rather obvious, from the first second on the ship, that Neal had convinced himself that Emma would want him, now that Colin is gone.

When Mary-Margret and David had decided to tell the others on the ship about Emma’s pregnancy, Neal had immediately withdrawn from the group, sulking and grumbling and refusing to talk to anyone—Mary-Margret couldn’t help but compare him to a toddler who’d been told the toy he wanted already belonged to someone else.

He had even pouted!

“Okay,” David drawls uncomfortably, “Back to the subject. There has to be something we can do to make sure Emma doesn’t push herself too far. We can’t stop her from helping us find Henry, but we need to find a way to make it easier on her.”

“No, you don’t,” Emma’s voice suddenly interjects, making everyone jump—except for Rumpelstiltskin—and look away guiltily. Emma’s standing behind them, her arms crossed protectively across her stomach, her brow furrowed and her eyes flashing with anger. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of _myself_ ,” Emma continues, “And my baby. I don’t need all of you talking behind my back like I’m a fragile little puppet just waiting to break!”

“Emma, we’re just worried about you,” David pleads, eying the dark circles under Emma’s eyes nervously, “You haven’t been sleeping well an—” Once again, they’re interrupted.

But not by Emma this time.

“Well, well, would you look at that,” the young, pretty blonde who just appeared right behind Emma sneers, her pretty face twisting into a displeased scowl, “here I was hoping to welcome captain Jones back… Instead I find you lot. Rumpelstiltskin. Baelfire.” She glares at father and son, and if looks could have killed…

“Tink,” Neal smiles, a tad uncomfortable, fidgeting in his seat, “Long time, no see…”

The girl—Tinkerbell, really?—crosses her arms over her chest and glares at him. “Not long enough. What are you doing back here? I thought you were too busy running from your dear _Papa_ to stay in one place for too long.”

Emma sees Neal wince slightly and her eyes widen—she’s never seen him this … Vulnerable before. It’s both amusing and terrifying to see—and yet, the most dominant feeling as she watches the interaction is relief.

Maybe he’ll be too preoccupied with Tinkerbell to bother her anymore.

“Come on, Tink,” he cajoles, “are you still on that? It’s been like thirty years… More even.”

Tink narrows her eyes at him and tilts her head to the side. “Like I said, Bae. Not nearly long enough.”  

Emma rolls her eyes and steps forward, promptly dragging Tink’s attention to her—and her tiny baby bump, apparently—instead. “We’re here to find my son,” she sighs when both Regina and Neal cough pointedly, “ _our_ son. He was kidnapped and we know she took him here.”

Tink raises an eyebrow at Emma, dismissing her with a cold, “And I care, _because?_ ”

Emma nearly growls in frustration, aggressively taking another step forward, standing nose to nose with the blonde fairy, “I don’t give a crap about whatever happened between you and him,” she gestures towards Neal angrily, “when he was here last time—for all I care you were lovers and he cheated on you, or tried to kill you or whatever—he’s here to help us find Henry, and that’s all I care about. Now, if you’re not going to help, get the fuck off _my_ ship before I make you.”

For a long, tense second, there’s tense, shocked silence on the ship, before Tink bursts into delighted peals of laughter, clapping her hands excitedly, tapping her index finger on Emma’s nose playfully, “Oh, I like you,” she giggles, “You’re a tough cookie, aren’t you?” She glances over at the others and grins, “I like this one. She’s fun.”

Emma rolls her eyes again and takes a step back, away from the now slightly hyperactive fairy. Tink doesn’t seem too bothered by the gesture and claps her hands together again. “Very well, I’ll help you—I can show you where Pan usually keeps his prisoners, since I’m assuming he’s the one keeping your son.” She frowns a little, “Did they come through a portal, like you?”

David shoots her a startled look and blurts, “How on earth do you know how we got here?”

Regina snorts derisively and shakes her head, “She’s a fairy. She can sense it. The ship’s probably still covered in its magic.”

“Yes, I can,” Tink nods enthusiastically, before turning back to Emma, “And I can sense that baby of yours too… It’s got a lot of magic—pure magic, that is. I haven’t felt anything like it before.”

Four startled voices chorus, “What?” at Tink, every single one of them staring at the little fairy, Emma covering her small bump with her hand protectively.

Rumpelstiltskin tilts his head to the side and giggles in a high, goose bump-inducing pitch, gesturing wildly as he exclaims, “Well, of course. Its mother is the Product Of True Love—if Miss Swan over there was the pirate’s True Love, which seems to be the case, that child would be even more magically potent than she is. True Love mixing with True Love. Purest, most powerful magic there is.”

Emma sinks down onto a chair as she tries to process yet another revelation, rubbing her small bump absent-mindedly. While the others continue questioning Tink and Rumple on the subject, Emma tries to relax a little—they have an ally now, someone who knows the island (and not just from a few decades ago, like Neal), someone who can help them find Henry faster.

“Okay,” she interrupts suddenly, refocusing her attention on the fairy, “You said you could show us where Pan keeps his prisoners. So show us.”

“It’s too far to walk now,” Tink smiles gently. “You,” she looks pointedly at Emma, “should get some rest while the rest of you gather supplies so you can keep going for a bit in the jungle—if your boy isn’t at the first base, we’ll need to keep going over land rather than return to the ship. You will need to sleep as much as you can now. I’ll come back to get you at sunrise.”

“Okay.”

Everyone looks shocked at Emma’s lack of arguing, but no one protests when she announces she’ll be going to bed right away, and to wake her when they need her.

“I’ll be taking my leave too,” Tink announces, “Do not wake her before dawn tomorrow—I cast some fairy dust onto her so she would sleep dreamlessly and peacefully. She needs the rest.” And with that, she hops onto the railing, waving at them cheerfully before jumping off, disappearing into a puff of glittering smoke.

“So now we’re committing to following a fairy around,” Regina deadpans. “Lovely.”

.

.

.

 _His head is pounding, and he feels sick—he only has a vague recollection of the events that transpired before he passed out, but something is niggling in the back of his mind, insisting to be heard, insisting that he needs to_ remember _._

_He tries to open his eyes, tries to blink, but his eyelids refuse to cooperate and his mind feels thick and sluggish. He cannot focus—he cannot pin down the sounds around him; he has no idea where he is or what happened._

_Confused, he tries to blink, to get a look at his surroundings, but his eyes simply refuse to cooperate._

_Still fazed, he tries to remember how he got here—wherever ‘here’ is. Memories suddenly flash before his eyes at a sickening pace. His brother scratching his arm with the poison, dying in his arms._

_The boy, Pan, offering him a cure._

_Sailing the ship back to the Enchanted Forest._

_Liam. Soldiers._

_Liam…_

_Jukes hitting him on the head because he wouldn’t stop struggling to get to Liam as the soldiers took him away._

_Sharp pain. Fading light. Darkness._

_Nothing._

_He sucks in a deep breath, trying to alleviate the dizziness and the pounding in his head. Why is this happening to him? To Liam?_

_They had never been anything less than devoted subjects to their King._

_Why would he suddenly turn on them? First the assignment to have them collect deadly poison, then the treason charges against Liam…_

_What on earth is going on?_

_He can figure all that out later—now… Now he needs to work up the courage and the strength to open his eyes and face the demon their King turned out to be._

_He needs to be awake and alert to help his brother._

_He lets a sigh fall from his lips, gathers all the strength and courage he can muster, and blinks._

_Once. Twice._

_Slowly, his surroundings come into focus, though the relentless throbbing his head makes it hard to focus on anything—he recognizes his own room in Liam and Prue’s townhouse, and realizes the crew must have brought him here after they knocked him out._

_Snapping from his thoughts, he looks down, frowning at the red bloodstain on his otherwise pristinely white shirt (there’s another thing; why is he still in his complete uniform?). The house is entirely silent—too silent, almost—and a feeling of dread settles deep in the pit of his stomach._

_The door opens, and Prue steps into the room, eyeing him warily._

_“Prue,” Killian rasps, slightly taken aback by the dry, scratchy state of his throat. “What happened? Where’s Liam?” He looks around the room, once again confused by the unusual silence in the house._

_“Liam’s in the castle’s dungeons,” Prue responds calmly, pushing him back down on the bed, “his execution is scheduled for tomorrow at dawn.”_

_“Execution?!” Killian exclaims, shooting up and out of the bed, “What the bloody hell is going on? Liam_ cannot _be executed—he’s done nothing wrong!” He stares at his sister-in-law, unable to comprehend why she’s so calm about this—her husband’s going to be killed and she’s just sitting there like nothing’s wrong._

_Prue smiles sadly and reaches out to pat his arm, as though that would serve to calm him, to stop him from reeling about the injustice of this all. “You really didn’t know, did you?” she says softly, her dark, sad eyes studying him intently._

_“Didn’t know what?” Killian spits, “That our King was a vengeful bastard? No, I did not know that!”_

_“Killian,” Prue scolds (he supposes he should be nicer about the King, he_ is _Prue’s great-uncle after all), “That is not true. Sit, there is much I must tell you, and the King will only allow you to see Liam to make your peace with him once—in an hour.”_

_“Where is Rose?” He questions, sinking down onto his bed, his mind whirring with the implications of Liam’s arrest and scheduled execution—he simply wants something familiar, something known, and hugging his sweet, darling little niece will help him calm down._

_It always does._

_Prue’s eyes tear up, and the dread that pooled in the pit of his stomach grows. Prue whispers, “My Uncle called me to him after you left… He told me he had received word from a trusted source, that Liam felt trapped in our marriage, and took our daughter. He said Liam hired someone to have me killed so he would could take my inheritance, Rose and you and leave this kingdom.”_

_“Prue,” Killian whispers, unable to wrap his mind around the ridiculous story, “Prue, where’s Rose?”_

_“I don’t know,” she breathes, tears rolling down her cheeks, “She disappeared the same day you and Liam left on your mission.”_

_“Liam didn’t take her,” Killian chokes, “Prue, he loves you, you_ know _that.”_

_Prue shakes her head, burying her face in her hands as a heartbreaking sob falls from her lips. “I have no idea what to believe anymore. The King showed me documents—Liam’s signature was on it, and I—Rose is gone, and no one saw her leave and—” Killian watches as Prue folds in on herself, his heart—that is already raw and battered after nearly seeing Liam die because of the King’s deceit—shatters for her._

_He does not blame her._

_The King is much like a father to her—she loves Rose with all that she has; if the King truly had shown her forged documents with Liam’s signature, he cannot fault her for believing the evidence._

_Had he not seen the King’s deceit  firsthand, he might not have believed it either._

_Slowly, he kneels before Prue, taking both of her hands in his. “Prue, it is a lie. Liam loves you, more than anything—he didn’t take Rose. I don’t know who did, but…” he chokes and continues, “Liam did not do anything that warrants this punishment. The King, however…”_

_Prue calms slightly, staring at him as he relays his and Liam’s adventures in Neverland, stuttering and choking through the moments he had thought he’d lost his brother, carefully describing the odd feeling of forgetfulness he and Liam had both experienced upon first returning to the Enchanted Forest._

_“Prue,” he says urgently, “The King lied—he sent us on a mission to acquire a deadly poison, masking it as a cure for all ill; when it somehow came to his attention that we knew of his deceit, he targeted you and made you believe your husband had turned against you.” He clutches at her hands tightly, eyes imploring her to believe him, to trust him._

_“But if he lied,” Prue breathes shakily, tears still drying on her pale skin, “then where’s Rose? If Liam didn’t take her, who did?” Killian shrugs helplessly, seeing his own desperation and worry and_ fear _mirrored in Prue’s dark eyes—he does not know how their lives broke and fell apart so easily and so quickly, but he does know that he will do whatever it takes to make sure they will all make it out of this mess._

_Together._

_They’re a family. They stick together, they fight for each other and they never give up._

_“We’ll find her,” he says softly, “We’ll find her, Prue. We’ll get Liam out, and we_ will _find Rose, and we’ll find another kingdom, somewhere we can live safely—without the King coming after us. We’ll have a happy ending. All of us.”_

_He almost believes his own words._

.

.

.

**Neverland Jungle  
 _(Several Days Later)_**

So far, following a fairy around hasn’t done a lot more for them than their daily explorations of the jungle did. Tink had led them to one of Pan’s so-called prisoner camps, but upon their arrival, it had been fairly easily to conclude it had been abandoned a long time ago.

Gold long since lost his patience with them and announced he’d be conducting his own investigation, only meeting up with them at night, when they’re setting up camp.

With a flick of her wrist, Regina conjures a large tent, gesturing Emma towards it impatiently. She and Snow have been relentless in forcing Emma to sleep at night and making sure she’s eating enough—though Regina does not particularly like Emma or her now-late husband, she does respect them, and she can clearly see how much Emma loves Henry and how much he loves her and the pirate in return.

She knows Henry would never forgive her if she let anything happen to Emma too.

“Regina, I’m fine,” Emma whines petulantly, “I don’t need you and Mary-Margret hovering over me like two overprotective mother hens.”

“Well, suck it up, princess,” Regina rolls her eyes, “Go get some rest. You’re not going to be of any use to us or Henry if you’re dead on your feet.” She points towards the tent, glaring at Emma sternly, refusing to back down because the pregnant Savior decided to behave like a four-year-old at bedtime.

“Ugh,” Emma grumbles, stomping towards the tent, “Fine.”

Regina watches her disappear into the tent with vague amusement, shaking her head and vowing to herself never to let her hormones rule her like that if she were ever to fall pregnant.

She catches sight of Tinkerbell leaning against the tree, casually observing the UnCharmings as they bicker quietly over something undoubtedly stupid, while Neal stares at the tent she just conjured for Emma longingly.

She rolls her eyes.

It’s pathetic.

A blind person would see that Emma has eyes for none but the pirate—she does not know what happened between her and Rumple’s son, but whatever it is, the boy is clearly still holding out hope. For what, she does not know.

Clearly, it is not True Love.

Emma and the pirate are one of the most obvious True Love couples Regina has ever seen, and considering she knows Snow White and Prince Charming, that is saying something.

“Man,” Tink (who suddenly appears right next to her) says, “He looks like he could use some fairy dust. Might actually realize he needs to lay off Emma.”

Regina snorts unattractively and shakes her head. “Unfortunately, fairy dust does not solve heart ache that easily.”

Tink raises an eyebrow at her, giving her a sardonic smile. “Yes, you would know, wouldn’t you?”

Regina rolls her eyes exasperatedly, glaring at the fairy from the corner of her eye. “You’re still not over that? Please, let it go already, it’s been a long time.”

“I lost my wings because of you,” Tink hisses venomously, “I’ll take as damn fucking long to get over that as I like.” Regina raises one eyebrow at her, regarding her coolly. “Then why are you even here? Why would you help us?”

“I’m not doing this for you,” Tink spits, “I’m doing this for Emma, and for Jones—he was a friend to me when everyone else rejected me after I lost my wings. This is for them. Not you.” The tiny blonde glares at Regina and tilts her head to the side, “You don’t even regret it, do you? Not going inside? Not meeting him?”

Before Regina can respond, a wave of something…

Something powerful washes over the small clearing, raising every hair on the back of Regina’s neck—magic.

Powerful, _dark_ magic.

Emma’s head peaks out of the tent, her hair messy and tangled, her eyes wide and startled. “Please tell me I wasn’t the only one that felt that.”

“Oh no, dearie,” Rumple appears out of nowhere, “You most certainly were not. Someone just re-enforced a powerful concealing charm. There is something they do not want to us to find.”

Regina eyes Rumple wearily, but nods when the Charmings, Neal and Emma look at her for confirmation. “I can feel it as well—and whatever it is,” she looks ahead, into the jungle, “it’s close.”

Emma stumbles out of the tent, straightening her shirt and running her fingers through her hair. “Well, then what are we waiting for? Let’s go.”

“Emma,” Tink cautions her, “We’re close to Lost Boys territory—this might be designed to make us run straight into a trap.”

“I don’t care!” Emma exclaims, anger and desperation and fear burning deep in the depths of her eyes, “It might also lead us to Henry!” She directs her gaze right at Regina, and the elder woman can read the plea in the Savior’s eyes.

“It’s worth looking at,” she admits reluctantly, “For all we know, they didn’t expect us to be this close or to feel the charm at all.” She looks towards Rumple and Neal, spitting, “This is your son and grandson we’re talking about—risky or not, we need to do something.”

It takes no more than a few minutes to convince the others to tag along (three out of the five minutes it takes are spent trying to convince Emma to let Regina and Rumple go first), carefully pushing through the jungle once again. They don’t break up their camp—there’s no need; whatever they’re walking into, it’s only a few minutes away.

When they finally stumble upon the clearing—much larger and darker, somehow, than the one they set up camp in—the magic is so potent, Regina can almost feel it sizzle in the air.

“This is the next encampment I was going to show you,” Tink says softly, “I thought it was further away.”

“It’s empty,” Emma pouts, eyes roving around, “There’s nothing here.”

“No,” Charming says slowly, looking up at the sky, “No, it isn’t. Look up.” The tone of his voice is grave and sad, and it unnerves everyone, because Charming and Snow are usually the hopeful and cheerful ones—it is slightly terrifying to think of anything that could put a damper on their spirits.

Slowly, they all look up, a gasp falling from Snow’s lips as they take in the three large round cages floating in the air above them. “Are those…” Emma chokes, disgust dripping from every word she says, “Are those _human_ bones?”

“I believe so,” Rumple replies calmly, but Regina can hear the slight shock in his voice too.

“There’s someone in there,” Neal exclaims, pointing up at the middle cage, “Look!”

Regina moves immediately, raising her hands to lower the cage to the ground carefully—the bars are wrought and wrapped around each other so tightly and closely they can’t see who is in the cage; only that there is someone in there.

No one speaks, but the tension in the air as the cage softly touches the ground speaks volumes, and everyone holds their breath—Henry, Henry, Henry, Henry, Henry…

Regina swallows thickly before she raises her hand again, magic gathering in her palm, “Stand back,” she orders everyone, never taking her eyes off the cage that might be holding her son. The cage crumbles beneath the searing weight of her magic the second she releases it, revealing a small, terrified little girl with a head full of dark curls, gleaming blue eyes and a trembling lower lip.

Until she lays eyes on Emma.

Regina sees something spark in the girl’s eyes, before a bright smile tilts up her lips, and she launches herself into Emma’s arms, exclaiming, “Auntie Emma!”


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

**Neverland Jungle**

“She’s asleep,” Emma announces when she plops down beside the small fire David and Mary-Margret built, running her fingers through her hair and blinking tiredly. She doesn’t elaborate and just stares into the fire, pointedly ignoring everyone’s questioning stares—she knows what they want to ask her, but she doesn’t have any answers.

The little girl—Rose—had spun quite the tale, about her Uncle Killy rescuing Auntie Emma from drowning, and then falling in love and getting married, and it’s the scariest thing Emma has ever heard. It’s too similar to the dreams Colin had told her about—the dreams she’d shared with him on some occasion.

Their fairytale love story.

She rubs her hands over her face tiredly, trying to shake off the exhaustion and confusion so she’ll be able to focus—so she’ll be able to make sense of all of this.

“So,” David drawls after a short silence, “Care to explain?”

Emma sighs heavily and looks up, shrugging tiredly, “There’s not much to explain,” she replies, “I don’t know her—I don’t think I do, anyway.” She hesitates, shaking her head, like it’ll help her get rid of the ridiculous thoughts Rose had brought up—hope that somehow, she and Colin really did have a fairytale romance.

“There’s more though,” Tink interjects, “You looked like you saw a ghost when she was telling you the whole story about the Lieutenant and the girl he saved.”

Emma closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, shaking her head again. “No, it’s nothing—it doesn’t matter.”

“Obviously, it does,” Regina hisses, “This is no time to be keeping secrets—that little girl over there is convinced you are married to her uncle and came to rescue her from the big bad villain. If you have any inclinations as to how it is possible, please, share them with the group.”

Emma groans softly, shaking her head, “Look, it’s just… When Colin woke up after the accident, he told me he’d been dreaming about me—about us. What it would’ve been like if we’d met in one of Henry’s stories. I had a few of them too, but I didn’t think anything of it.” She blinks against her burning tears, sniffling softly, “When Rose told me about her uncle Killy and Auntie Emma—”

Her voice breaks, and tears roll down her cheeks—her heart is breaking all over again when she remembers Valentine’s day spent in bed with Colin, whispering back and forth about their very own fairy tale—it had felt so special.

Something they shared, something no one else knew about.

Regina exchanges a wary look with Rumpelstiltskin, who is listening to the story with rapt attention—unlike Neal, who’s resorted to just staring at Emma, like he always does when they talk about Emma’s late husband, scowling and drooling at the same. “Emma,” she says gently, “How accurate is Rose’s account? How much of it is the same as these dreams?”

“All of it,” Emma croaks, “From what I can tell, it’s exactly the same as the dreams Colin had about us meeting.” She looks up, tears still shining in her eyes, “She wasn’t lying either—she was completely, one hundred percent serious. She believes it—how is that possible?”

Neal leans forward, shaking his head confusedly—startling everyone by speaking up at all. “It’s not. It’s not possible that you knew him when he was a Lieutenant—it was over three hundred years ago; before your parents were even born.”

“How would you know?” Emma snaps, rubbing her belly absent-mindedly, glaring at Neal, “It’s not like you were there.”

Before Neal can respond, Mary-Margret cuts in, glaring at Emma a little—she understands that Emma’s on edge and confused and grieving, but they’re all here to help her and Regina get Henry back—, “That's not important right now. There has to be a reason all three of you seem to remember this… alternate life. Is it possible…" she looks towards Regina and Rumple, "that they did somehow have that life?"

Rumple sits in quiet contemplation, eyes darting between Emma and the tent where Rose is sleeping. “It should not be,” he finally says, tapping his chin thoughtfully, “Time travel is, and always has been, impossible. Your pirate has not been a Lieutenant in over three centuries; his family has been gone for longer than that.”

“Well, it should be easy enough to find out if it really happened,” Tink suddenly pipes up, smiling brightly—despite everyone looking at her confusedly—, “Rose said that the Lieutenant supposedly rescued you in the middle of the ocean, right?”

When Emma nods, still not sure what Tink is trying to say, Tink claps her hands and her smile widens.

“Then there’ll be a record of it—the ship’s Captain would have noted it in the logbook. There’ll be evidence. And if you really did know Killian then, if you were in love and married, like Rose says, maybe there’ll be something in his quarters.”

Emma stares at Tink, shaking her head before the fairy has even finished the sentence. “No—no, I’ve been sleeping in the Captain’s cabin since we left for Neverland, there’s nothing in there. I would’ve found it.”

“But…” Mary-Margret says slowly, “You just said he wasn’t a captain back then. He was a lieutenant. So the captain’s cabin wouldn’t have been his when he saved you.”

At this point, Emma is simply staring at them, vaguely wondering when they all decided they had the time to wonder about silly things like dreams—their focus should be on Henry, not … Whatever the hell the dreams and Rose are.

“It doesn’t matter,” Emma shakes her head stubbornly, “For all we know, we were _meant_ to find Rose—whoever has Henry by now could’ve put her there for us to find, _knowing_ it would distract us from _finding Henry_.” Even she can hear the desperation in her voice, and she hates that she’s _so_ close to falling apart in front of everyone, but…

It’s too much.

She could deal with Colin’s death, she could deal with Henry’s kidnapping—but she can’t deal with a possible alternative life with her husband too.

Regina quirks an eyebrow, but nods—she, too, has considered the possibility Rose is meant as nothing more than a distraction. Alas, it’s not something they can simply dismiss either; Emma and her pirate sharing dreams isn’t that unusual amongst True Love couples, but a girl (who claims to be the pirate’s niece, no less) who can remember the dreams as a real thing?

They need to know how the shared dreams and memories are possible.

“How about this,” she offers, frowning thoughtfully, “You take Rose back to the ship and look for something, _anything_ that might help us understand your supposed past with your pirate. In the meantime, _we_ ,” she gestures around the rest of the circle, “will search the other camps Tink spoke of, and return to the ship afterwards.”

She tries to smile for Emma’s sake, knowing the Savior well enough to know she will not go quietly.

“No,” Emma protests, eyes wide, “No, I have to—”

“—take care of yourself,” Regina cuts in, glaring at Mary-Margret when she opens her mouth to interject, “It’s no longer just you. You have two children who count on you right now—Rose _and_ the baby. Let us search for Henry while you search for clues.”

“But,” Emma pouts, “I have to do something, Henry’s counting on me.” She tries to blink back the tears that are burning in her eyes again (stupid hormones), biting her lip harshly to keep from crying. “I need to find him.”

Mary-Margret offers Emma a sweet, understanding smile and reaches to squeeze her hand. “And you will, honey. You just need to think of yourself and the baby too—it won’t do Henry any good if you get hurt, or worse,” she swallows thickly, “lose the baby.” She takes a deep breath to steady herself before she lets go of Emma’s hand and sits back down next to her husband.

“We’re all here for Henry,” David reminds Emma gently, “We all want to find him—it’s not good for you to want to do so much all at once. Just… Try to slow down a little, go back to the ship and find out if there’s any truth to the dreams. It could be important.”

Emma opens and closes her mouth several times, looking around the circle indignantly—does no one understand that she _needs_ to save Henry?

“Well, you can’t let her go back to the ship alone,” Neal suddenly interrupts, “it’s dangerous—especially if she’s only got the girl there with her.”

Emma glares at Neal—why does he insist on treating her like a fragile flower; she’s not going to break—, but David interrupts before she can say anything. “You’re right, it wouldn’t be smart to let them go by themselves; they’d be sitting ducks. You go with them, protect them. We’ll need one more day to check out the final camps and walk back to the ship.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Emma bristles angrily, “I am perfectly capable of protecting myself—I don’t need a fucking babysitter!” She crosses her arms over her chest, trying her hardest not to pout. Her emotions are all over the place, and while rationally, somewhere in the back of her mind, she knows they’re right—she really shouldn’t go traipsing through a jungle she doesn’t know with a little girl as her only company—, she really doesn’t like the idea of being stuck on the ship with no one but Neal as company.

And Rose, while she is adorable and sweet, does not count as company.

Regina sighs and shakes her head, glaring at Emma. “Stop acting like a child—Henry is my son as much as he is yours, and I understand how scared you are, but this is getting us nowhere. You are pregnant, you’re in no condition to fight, and that little girl in there,” she points towards the tent with an angry gesture, “is counting on _you_. Neal is going back with you, you’re going to find out what the hell is going on with this alternate life and get the hell over yourself.”

Everyone is staring at Regina openmouthed—including Emma—unsure what to make of the outburst.

“Fine,” Emma croaks after a long, tense silence, her eyes suspiciously watery, “Fine. We’ll go back in the morning. I’m going to sleep.” She stands up shakily, her hand coming up to cover her nearly inexistent baby bump—Mary-Margret catches the move and vaguely wonders if Emma’s aware that she does that every time she’s uncomfortable or emotional—, offering her parents a small smile before joining little Rose to sleep in the big tent.

Mary-Margret turns to Regina and glares at her, still not very happy with how harsh she had been with Emma. “Was that necessary? She’s grieving and pregnant—her hormones are going to be all over the place.”

“She needed to hear it,” Regina states coolly, waving her hand vaguely as she stands, conjuring a few more tents, “I am retiring for the night too; I suggest you all do the same.” She gazes out into the darkened jungle before turning to a suspiciously silent Rumple, “I don’t think it’s a good idea to leave Emma and Rose unattended on the Jolly for very long.”

“Indeed,” Rumple agrees, frowning at the tent where Rose and Emma are sleeping, “I shall join you on your venture tomorrow—and pop back to the ship to see to Miss Swan’s safety while you walk back.”

Everyone simply nods in agreement, their minds occupied trying to process the events of the day as they all retreat into the tents Regina conjured. The last thought on Mary-Margret’s mind as she curls into David’s arms is whether sending Neal back to the ship with her daughter is such a good idea.

She doesn’t know why, but there’s a dark, foreboding feeling deep in the pit of her stomach, and she has no idea what to do about it.

.

.

.

Emma sighs heavily, but shoots a genuine smile at Rose, who’s practically skipping through the jungle. Neal’s been broody and quiet the whole way, and to be honest—though his sullen expression is not helping with her mood swings—she prefers him that way.

It’s much better than his talk about slowly moving on from Colin—Regina had remarked that he likely thought she would want him once she got over her husband.

Emma hadn’t laughed as hard as she did then in days—not since before she broke that damn Curse.

Later, when she started thinking about it, she’d found herself a little mystified about it—she hadn’t given Neal any sort of indication that she still had feelings for him; hell, she was pretty sure she’d made it rather obvious she was only interested in Colin.

“Auntie Emma,” Rose asks sweetly, “Where’s mama and papa?” She blinks up at her with those _blue, blue_ eyes—there’s no question that she’s related to Colin—and pouts a little. “And uncle Killy isn’t here either.”

Oh, shit.

It’s like everything Rose hadn’t asked yesterday is suddenly occurring to her, and Emma has no idea what to tell her—what do you say to a six-year-old who’s convinced you’re her auntie who came to take her home?

According to Gold, Colin’s family—and by relation, Rose’s—had been dead for centuries.

“I don’t know, sweetie,” she chokes, “I’m not sure. I’ll try to find them for you though. I promise.” She ignores Neal scoffing behind her back and blinks back tears when Rose launches herself in her arms again, wrapping her small arms in a vice-like grip around Emma’s neck.

“I is a little scared, auntie Emma,” the little girl murmurs into Emma’s hair, refusing to move from Emma’s embrace. Emma swallows thickly, blinking furiously against her tears as she shifts Rose a little, so she can carry her more comfortably. “I know, honey,” she whispers back, “It’s okay. I’m a little scared too.”

They don’t speak for the rest of the way back, and Emma smiles when she feels Rose’s small body relax against hers. Rose had been tossing and turning as much as she had all night long, and Emma’s sure the whole situation is taking its toll on the little girl.

“So,” Neal speaks when they finally hit the beach, watching the Jolly Roger bob up and down on the waves, “Any idea where to start looking?”

Emma sighs and shrugs, moving Rose a little as she climbs into the lifeboat, so the girl won’t be woken when she sits down. “I don’t know… The captain’s log, I suppose. I don’t really think there’s anything to find though,” she sighs, stroking her fingers through Rose’s curls.

Neal nods, sitting down slowly and grabbing the oars, slowly rowing them back towards the Jolly Roger.  “He keeps the old logs in the back of the wardrobe,” he offers, “so he doesn’t have to look at them. I don’t know about the Lieutenant’s cabin—as far as I know, it’s been empty since he took the Captain’s Cabin.”

Emma stares at him for a moment, unsure how to respond to that, before simply nodding, taking in his expression curiously. “How do you know that?” She questions softly, rubbing her hand up and down Rose’s back soothingly when the little girl whimpers in her sleep and nuzzles closer to Emma.

“I—” Neal winces, “I spent some time on the ship… When I was here last time. Didn’t last very long.”

Emma narrows her eyes at him—there’s a lot he’s not telling her, she just _knows_ —but just nods slowly, biting her lip as they reach the Jolly, contemplating how she’s going to get Rose up onto the ship when Neal gestures impatiently.

“Give her to me, I’ll carry her up.”

Emma eyes him nervously for a moment—she doesn’t know why, but she feels weird letting Rose go—but acquiesces and carefully shifts Rose over onto his lap, shooting one more glance at the sleeping girl before deftly climbing the ladder onto the Jolly’s deck.

The second her feet touch the worn wood, a foreign warmth spreads throughout her entire body, and her fingers tingle. “Jesus,” she whispers under her breath, looking around, feeling more than a little flustered, “What the hell is that?” She wiggles her tingly fingers experimentally, staring at them intently,  almost willing the _something_ that’s making her tingle and feel warm—she’s not thinking about Colin; nope, it does not remind her of the feeling he gave her when he smiled at her—to show onto her skin.

“Hey, Ems, can you take her?”

She jumps slightly at Neal’s suddenly exclamation, shaking off her annoyance over his resurrection of the stupid nickname and his stomping and yelling while she obviously does not want to wake up Rose, and reaches out to pull Rose into her arms again.

“I’m just going to find her a bed,” she says dismissively, desperately hoping Neal won’t follow her—she does not want him around when she starts looking through her husband’s personal correspondence. She has no idea what she’ll find, but her hormones are driving her crazy and she’s crying over nothing all the time—she has no desire of letting Neal see that.

She makes her way down to the Lieutenant’s Cabin on automatic pilot, not realizing where her feet are carrying her until she’s already inside, carefully laying Rose down on the small cot and covering her with a thin blanket.

Her breathing constricts when she straightens, looking around the cabin with wide eyes.

There’s something here.

She doesn’t know what, but there’s something _painfully_ familiar about this cabin, even though she’s never been in here before—she has that feeling about the entire ship, but contributedit to being desperate to connect to anything that was Colin’s, that would help her hold onto his memory.

Her hands are shaking when she reaches to open the wardrobe—she’d almost missed it; it looked like it was just carved into the ship itself—terrified of what she’ll find inside.

She takes another deep breath and swings the doors open… And just faces a stack of neatly folded clothes.

“Well,” she chuckles under her breath, shaking her head at herself, “That was anticlimactic.”

She refrains from rolling her eyes and pushes the clothes to the side, curiously looking at the few stray objects she finds—a simple compass, a map, something that look like the beginnings of a wooden toy—before her fingers brush over a smooth, wooden object way in the back of the closet.

She frowns and pulls it towards her, examining the simple wooden box she is now holding curiously.

Frowning, she moves to the small bench by the window, sinking into the worn pillows as she opens the box. It’s filled with letters and scrolls and, though her stomach rolls at the mere thought of having to read her husband possibly writing love letters to someone other than her—‘ _don’t be ridiculous’,_ she scolds herself, _‘it might be professional correspondence too.’_ —, she picks one of the letters and unfolds it, tears welling up in her eyes when she recognizes her husband’s beautiful cursive handwriting.

_My love,_

_We have barely parted, and I already miss you. Liam has assured me it is no more than newly wedded bliss, and that it will wear off in time, but I cannot, for the life of me, imagine myself not being this in love with you._

_I cannot imagine not wanting to be by your side every day, especially now, to see you grow with our child. Liam has told me the mission will be over soon—the journey itself won’t take more than two days, and the duration of the rest of the mission depends entirely on how fast we will be able to procure the item the King has sent us to find._

_I will work tirelessly until I am reunited with you, darling._

_This land is strange and the air is thick with magic—I do not like it one bit, and it only makes me more determined to find the item and return to you._

_I must go now, love, and I hope I will not have to write to you again, but that I will have you and our beanby my side._

_I love you, my Emma._

_Yours,_

_Killian_

 

“Oh, my God,” Emma chokes, the letter slipping from between her numb fingers, “Oh, my God.”

It can’t be true—it does not make sense.

Regina and Gold had both already said it wasn’t possible.

Hands truly shaking by now, she pulls out a larger scroll, tears rolling down her cheeks as she unrolls it, staring at the beautiful hand drawn portrait— _her_ portrait.

“No,” she chokes, abruptly dropping the portrait back in the box and shoving the box off her lap, sending it crashing onto the ground, “No, no, no.” She can’t handle this—she can’t _do_ this, not now. She’s barely holding it together as it is, she does not need another reminder of what she’s lost because she wasn’t strong enough to fight for it.

More memories of Colin—Killian—will only make her hurt worse and she won’t survive that.

She can feel panic grow deep in the pit of her stomach, red-hot and coiling, waiting to snap, for her to break and lose it completely—and she does.

She loses it.

She can’t think, she can’t breathe—she curls in on herself, nearly choking on the heavy, hysterical sobs that tear through her body.   

Her eyes are shut tight as she rocks back and forth, tears rolling down her cheeks—she doesn’t see the bright, almost blinding light that encompasses the entire room—the only thought on her mind that she _needs_ him, she _misses_ him, she’s lost without him.

It’s the suddenly backlash when the light abruptly fades that snaps her out of it.

That, and the distinctly masculine groan coming from the floor. She swallows thickly and counts to ten before opening her eyes, already mentally preparing herself to tell Neal off—because really, who else is it going to be?—her mouth halfway open when she catches sight of the man on the floor.

The dark, messy hair, the eternally perfect three-day scruff, the full, luscious curve of his lips and the dark smattering of his long eyelashes—ridiculously long for a guy, really—hiding the stunningly blue eyes she knows lie beneath those eyelids from her gaze.

Holy shit.

Her breath hitches in her throat, and instead of his name, a broken sob falls from her lips as she finally watches his eyes flutter open, almost immediately locking on hers. He stares at her as intensely as she stares at him, and they are both silent as they try to process the magnitude of the moment, the implications of this situation.

Emma’s eyes leave his of their own accord, trailing down to his chest, when her breath catches in her throat again. 

The bullet hole in his bloodstained, dirty, torn shirt is still there.

The wound on his chest isn’t.


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

“Emma.”

His voice is rough and his accent thick, and God, it makes her want to cry and crawl into his arms and never leave—but she can’t move.

She cannot, for the life of her, get her body to cooperate.

Her eyes are filled with tears again, locked on his—it can’t be real, it’s not him, he’s _dead_ , she saw him _die_ , and she _felt_ it, she felt the pain of losing him and being unable to stop it. He can’t be real, and here, and _alive_.

He can’t be.

“Love, what happened?”

She closes her eyes, squeezing them shut as she takes a deep, ragged breath, a single tear running down her cheek as she repeats her new mantra to herself.

_He’s not real, he’s not here, don’t touch him, he’ll just disappear again._

She jumps back violently when his fingers suddenly brush against her cheek, her eyes snapping open to be met with the vibrant blue of his—and then, suddenly, someone hauls him back, slamming him into the wardrobe where she found the box.

It happens almost too fast, and she can barely comprehend what’s happening as she watches Neal slam Colin’s head back against the wood again, fingers curled around the neck of Colin’s shirt.

“No—” she exclaims weakly, once it registers that Neal _touched_ him, and he’s still here (that has to mean he’s real, he’s actually here, he’s not _dead_ —she didn’t lose him), stumbling to her feet, “Neal, stop, let him go.”

“No,” Neal snarls, pushing Colin back when he tries to free himself from Neal’s grip, “It’s a trap from Pan—Hook is dead.”

“What the bloody hell are you raving about, Bae?” Colin exclaims angrily, shoving at Neal impatiently (it works, Neal stumbles back a few paces and takes up a protective—and unnecessary, in Emma’s opinion—stance in front of Emma instead), “I’m right here, for God’s sake.”

There’s a sudden puff of crimson smoke, and a high-pitched giggle makes Emma shiver and back up a little, a little taken aback by Colin’s entire body tensing up and his eyes darkening. “Actually, dearie,” Rumple glares at Colin—God, what is it with those two?—“You weren’t. And your True Love was quite devastated about your death. What is to say you are not one of Pan’s minions sent to infiltrate our ranks?”

Colin’s eyes widen, and Emma swallows thickly, resisting the urge to push the Dynamic Duo out of the way so she can hold her husband, eyeing him nervously. “Bloody buggering hell,” Colin curses, “We’re in _Neverland_? Why the bloody hell would we ever set foot in that hellhole?”

“Cora,” Emma whispers, her heart skipping a beat when Colin’s eyes lock onto hers again, “Cora took Henry after she—”

“—after she had Smee, the filthy rat,” Colin curses, “shoot me. Love,” he bites his lip—God, how can this be anyone but her Colin? He looks, talks, walks, smiles and even bites his lip the same way—, “Love, it’s me, I swear—believe me. Emma...”

“Tell me something only you and I can know,” she whispers, another tear rolling down her cheek, because she _wants_ it to be real, she _wants_ it to be him—but she can’t take any chances. She glances towards where Rose is still sleeping (she swears the girl can sleep through a hurricane if she can sleep through this noise), and rubs her belly absent-mindedly. “Something that’s just _ours_.”

She ignores Neal and Rumple, only looking at Colin, willing him to tell her the truth, to be who he says he is—she can’t handle having to watch him die again, even if it’s Pan’s minion in disguise. “Please,” she whispers, silently cursing herself when yet another tear rolls down her cheek.

His eyes are soft as they watch her, and the small smile that tips up the corner of his mouth nearly makes her throw all caution in the wind and jump him, but the sound of his smooth, deep voice that she’s been missing so much for the past couple of weeks stops her—she really loves the sound of his voice.

“I told you I loved you the first time when I was hung over,” he smiles, and Emma can’t help but smile too, “I’d seen you with someone else and got jealous and drank myself into a stupor.”

Emma’s not sure what to call the sound that falls from her lips, but she starts nodding, moving forward—he’s real, he’s here, he’s alive, he’s _hers_ —abruptly being stopped by Neal’s hand on her arm. “Anyone could have heard that story,” he hisses (Emma briefly contemplates punching him in the face, because _really,_ what the hell is his problem?).

“Fine,” Colin spits back, “Emma, when we were together for a year, we got matching tattoos—mine’s fairly visible,” he grins and rubs his hand over his shoulder, where she knows the small inked black swan is, “but yours… It’s on you—”

“Okay!” She exclaims, throwing off Neal’s hand and sending a glare towards him and Rumple, “It’s him. Now get the fuck out—I need to talk to my husband.”

It takes a while, but she finally convinces the two men to go wait for the others on deck—apparently Rumple and Regina had both sensed the powerful blast of magic that brought Colin back here (she still has no idea _how_ that happened) and they turned around, back to the ship immediately, while Rumple popped over to see what was going on.

Finally they’re alone—sleeping Rose aside—and she just…

She doesn’t know which emotion is more prevalent at the moment.

She just stares at him, drinking in the image of him, and silently hoping he’ll keep his mouth shut so everything will just… Just stay easy and peaceful.

So she won’t have to think about how she felt when she believed he had died in her arms, how _guilty_ she felt for not being able to save him and Henry. How much it had _hurt_ , trying to imagine raising their baby on her own, imagining how _lonely_ she’d be, because no one would ever be able to love her like he does—downside of True Love, she supposes (damn Grimm brothers never mentioned that part in their stupid fairy tales)—and now he’s here, and he’s _fine_ , he’s _alive_.

It’s the smirk that does it.                  

How dare he stand there and smirk and be _okay_ , like nothing happened?!

Before she realizes what she’s doing, she’s across the room, slapping him so hard, she’s pretty sure he’ll bruise, shoving him back against the wardrobe again, tears slipping down her cheeks uncontrollably—everything she’d been trying to hide, everything she so desperately didn’t want to feel just pours out, and she can’t stop it.

“You _left_ me,” she cries, her voice breaking in the middle of the sentence, punching him in the shoulder as hard as she can, one insult after the other spilling from her lips, and he’s just _standing_ there and taking it and _why isn’t he fighting back?_

All the fight drains out of her, and she slumps forward, the whirlwind of emotions and hormones and everything finally slowing down so she can _breathe_ , into his arms. “You promised,” she whimpers quietly, sliding her fingers through his hair with one hand, while curling the fingers of her other hand into his shirt, “You promised you’d never leave me, but you _did_.”

“I came back, love,” he whispers gently, sifting his fingers through her hair gently, “I always come back for you—you know that, darling.”

She just nods against his chest, tracing her fingers over the small bullet hole in his shirt, anxiety gripping her heart tightly and she remembers the feel of his hot, sticky blood against her fingers—she chokes and curls her fingers over the spot, breathing, “I thought I’d lost you. I thought you were gone.”

She dissolves into tears again, unable to stop once she’s started (stupid, _stupid_ hormones).

“Shh, love, I’ve got you. I’m here.” His arms tighten around her as though to strengthen his words, her fingers clenching in his shirt and his hair, keeping him anchored against her while her tears rapidly soak his shirt.

She can’t let go—she’s never letting him out of her sight again.

She’s not sure how long they’re standing there, wrapped in each other’s arms, but she’s still not had her fill of him when they’re interrupted by a timid, shy little girl peeking at them from beneath the covers.

 “Auntie Emma?” Rose’s voice floats from the bed, “Can I get up?”

Emma smiles a little, swallowing thickly when she takes in Killian’s expression; his eyes are wide and startled, his jaw slack and his entire body tense. Rose crawls from beneath the covers and jumps off the bed, freezing on the spot when she finally notices Colin.

“Uncle Killy?”

Emma’s heart nearly breaks for the two of them—she has no idea how long they’d been apart, nor how their relationship was before, but it’s obvious that her husband adores Rose just as much as she seems to love him.

She watches him drop to his knees, just in time to catch Rose in his arms, hugging her tightly—and Emma would’ve sworn she saw him blinking back tears as he whispered how much he’d missed her, how sorry he was he hadn’t found her sooner, how much he loved her, his beautiful little Rosebud. She doesn’t realize she’s crying (again, damn it) until Rose skips towards her, hugging her leg and asking her why she’s crying.

She swallows thickly and kneels too, sending Colin—Killian, Hook, whatever she’s supposed to call him now—a watery smile, “Because I’m happy, sweetie,” she says shakily, “I found you, and Uncle Killy, and when we find Henry,” she closes her eyes briefly, trying to ignore how scared she is for him, “we can all go home, and we can be a family.”

Colin shuffles over to the pair of them on his knees, and Emma chuckles weakly, pressing her forehead to his as he wraps his arms around both her and Rose. “I’m sorry for hitting you,” she breathes, sliding her arm around his neck, playing with the soft hair on the back of his neck.

“It’s okay, darling,” he whispers back, “I love you.”

She breathes in shakily, tilting her head forward to press her lips to his—and then the door slams open and David storms in, eyes wide and concerned as he watches the three of them on the floor. “It’s true,” he chokes, “You’re alive.”

“I missed you too, mate,” Colin chuckles gruffly, ignoring the filthy look David throws him in favor of helping Emma to her feet, hoisting Rose up into his arms when she gives him her best pouty face.

Emma grins and wonders if their baby will have him as wrapped around his or her little finger as Rose obviously does.

“Shit,” she curses, her hand falling to her belly when she realizes he doesn’t know—he doesn’t know _anything_ yet.

“Emma?”

“Love?”

David and Killian both round to look at her and Rose blinks confusedly. “I…” Emma hesitates, looking from her father to her husband, swallowing thickly, “Do you think you could…  Take Rose for a bit? Colin and I need to talk.” She tries to give David a meaningful look, but he just frowns and shakes his head. “Oh, for God’s sake,” Emma grumbles, taking Rose from Killian’s arms, “Can you go upstairs with David for a moment, sweetie? Auntie Emma needs to talk to Uncle Killy for a little bit.”

Rose looks up at her with those big, innocent blue eyes and blinks a few times before smiling radiantly and nodding. “Okay, auntie Emma.” She hugs Emma’s leg again, then hugs Colin’s before grabbing David’s hand and tugging him out of the room insistently.

As soon as the door closes, Emma moves to her husband, taking his hand in hers and tugging them both to the small bench. “It’s not bad,” she smiles when she takes in Colin’s apprehensive expression, squeezing his hand softly, “I just…” She bites her lip and swallows thickly, “You’re going to need to tell us what happened to you after Cora poofed you away, and—” She looks down at their hands and takes a deep breath, “We need to talk.”

She looks up at him, looking deep into those blue eyes she fell in love with, “I want to hear everything from you first. I need to know _you_ , Colin—Killian. And I don’t want to hear it from anyone but you.”

“Are you sure you want to hear this, love? It’s not a pretty tale—and I am certain it will change your view of me.” He implores gently, curling his fingers around hers.

Emma sighs, running her free hand through her hair tiredly. “You have no idea how many times my dad and Neal and Gold have been trying to tell me that.” She shakes her head and shrugs, “But I don’t care. I love you as Colin Brody, and I’m pretty sure I might’ve loved you as Killian Jones, once upon a time…” She smiles a little at his confused look and adds, “Let me decide if I can love Captain Hook as well.”

He raises his fake hand to touch her cheek, his eyes soft and filled with emotion as he whispers, “I do not know what I did to deserve you, love, but I am never letting you go.”

Emma smiles and raises her hand to cover his. “Good.”

She waits patiently and Colin sorts out his thoughts (she grins a little when he shifts them onto the small bench, so she’s cuddled into his side, his arms wrapped around her tightly), briefly wondering how she’s supposed to bring up their baby _and_ their supposed alternate life together.

When he starts talking, she sighs and rests her head on his shoulder, deciding she’ll let him talk first, and then gently tell him.

“When I was nineteen,” Colin starts, “my brother and I were sent onto a mission by our King—he sent us here, to Neverland, claiming we were to retrieve a plant that would cure all ill…” He trails off and Emma can hear the bitter note in his voice.

“He lied, didn’t he?” She asks softly, tilting her head up slightly to look at him.

“Aye,” he sighs, “It was poison… Liam nearly died because of it. When we returned home, Liam was arrested for high treason before we even left the ship—the King had told Prue, Liam’s wifeand Rose’s mother, that Liam had been planning to kill her, so he could get access to her family’s wealth to escape the kingdom with me and Rose. He even kidnapped Rose, or had her kidnapped, to make his story more plausible. He planned to execute Liam, and I have no doubt he had a plan to dispose of me to keep us from telling his subjects of his despicable nature.”

Emma winces at the blatant hurt in his voice, and tightens her fingers around his—she knows how much it must’ve hurt to have been betrayed like that by a man he had obviously trusted and held in high regard. “Did you save him?”

“Of course I did,” he responds gruffly, and Emma smiles at the slight cockiness that snuck back into his voice, burrowing deeper into her pirate’s embrace.

“I enlisted the crew of the Jolly—the Jewel back then—who were all still loyal to Liam, and planned it so that we could get Liam, get to ship and sail as far and as fast as we could.” His fingers tighten around hers as he continues, “We turned to piracy, and we searched the entire realm for Rose, but eventually…” His voice nearly breaks, and Emma hugs him a little closer, blinking back tears.

“Eventually,” Colin continues, “we had to assume the King had… _disposed_ of her after our escape.”

She can’t imagine anyone ever being able to look at Rose and raise a hand to harm her—but she’s well aware of the kinds of lengths some people will go to get power and to keep it, and she supposes a man depraved enough to send for deadly poison and then trying to execute the men he sent to get it wouldn’t see a problem in _disposing_ of a little girl.

“Why does Neal hate you?” She whispers, not looking up at him, simply curling her fingers into his shirt to hold him close.

She feels his chest vibrate when he chuckles and rolls her eyes when he cheekily replies, “Other than me being the one you married, you mean?” He’s silent for a moment before he sighs and continues, “I assume his father told him many a lie about us—he was but a wee lad when he last saw us; it is not beyond reason to assume he does not remember us all that well.”

“Us?” Emma pushes away from him, sitting up with her back against the armrest and her feet propped up in his lap, “You and Liam and Liam’s wife?”

“Aye,” Colin nods with a sad smile, “After nearly six years, we found a small port where we could stay without being detected immediately. Prue, or Milah, as she took to calling herself to avoid the Crown’s detection, grew attached to Bae when he was a wee lad—he was no older than four or five at the time. She missed Rose, and I suppose Bae helped fill that void somewhat.” He looks down at his lap, rubbing his thumb over her ankles softly before he continues, “Rumpelstiltskin was not the Dark One in that time; he was simply a spinner who had lost his wife in childbirth… He took an immediate liking to Prue, and after a while, I believe he convinced himself she returned his affections.”

Emma is completely fixated on him, barely registering anything but the sound of his voice (she knows he knows because he’s grinning lecherously, and she vaguely wonders how long he’ll last before jumping her—not to mention how long _she_ ’ll last).

“When we realized just how deep his affections for her ran, she attempted to make him see she was happy in her marriage, and that she had no desire to leave it.” Colin sighs and shakes his head, “When it became clear that he would not let it go, we made the decision to leave, once again, and to not return to that port for a while. When we did return, years later, it was to find Bae long gone, and Rumpelstiltskin as the Dark One.”

His eyes darken and Emma can feel his entire body tense, and the grief seems to roll off of him in waves, and she has no idea what to do to make it better, to make it hurt less. Before she can attempt anything, he continues, his voice cold and hard.

“He came to the ship and just…” His accent is thicker now, his voice heavy and gruff, “He murdered them both, out of nothing more than petty jealousy, because Prue loved Liam—she always loved Liam, and he couldn’t stomach that. He blamed us for his mistakes, for Bae leaving, for everything.”

He’s crying now, and Emma can’t stand the guilt and pain in his voice, crawling back over to him to wrap him up in her arms, to try to carry a bit of the burden he does. “He had me tied to the mast,” Colin whispers brokenly, “So I could watch as he slaughtered what was left of my family. When I tried to fight back and stabbed him with a hook, he cut off my hand—as punishment, he said.”

“I’m so sorry,” Emma whispers, tears rolling down her cheeks as she curls herself around him, her heart breaking for her husband—hatred towards Gold wells up from a dark, angry place deep inside of her, and if she could bear to let go of Colin, she’d be upstairs beating the crap out of Gold, Dark One or not.

“I lost myself after that,” Colin says softly, “All I wanted was to avenge my brother and Prue’s deaths… I still want to—they cannot rest until I do.”

“Why not? They wouldn’t want you to die for them.” Emma’s voice is barely above a whisper, and her fingers tighten into a fist above his heart—she’s scared. If he’ll go after Rumpelstiltskin again, he’ll die and she can’t lose him—not again, she won’t live through it.

“I’m the only one left, Emma,” he whispers back, his arms tightening around her, “I’m theonly one who remembers them, who loved them, who even _cares_ anymore. If I don’t do it, if I don’t fight until he has paid for his crimes… Who will?”

“I don’t know,” she whispers, another tear rolling down her cheek because he’s _right_ , he _is_ the only one who remembers them, who loves them—but he doesn’t have to be and she doesn’t know how to tell him.

They sit in silence for a long time, holding each other, breathing each other in, before Emma finally manages to find the words. “I think… Do you remember those dreams you used to have? About our very own fairy tale?”

“Aye,” he whispers, “Of course I do.”

“What if I told you—” she takes a deep, shuddering breath, closing her eyes as she finishes, “what if I told you it might have been more than just a dream?”

He has to have sensed how serious she is, because he just gently pushes her back, so he can look her in the eye. “What are you talking about?”

Emma bites her lip and runs her fingers through her hair before gesturing towards the door. “Rose remembers. Not as dreams, but as actual memories. She knew who I was when we found her—I…” She shrugs, “I came back to the ship to look for something, _anything_ that would help us understand what was going on, and I…” She offers him a sheepish smile, “I went through your things… I found a little box.”

She bends down from the bench to drag the small box off the floor back onto her lap, biting her lip nervously as she looks at him from beneath her lashes, “I found a love letter you wrote… Addressed to _me._ ”

She takes in his slack-jawed expression and smiles a little, rubbing her thumb over the scar on his cheek gently. “Yeah,” she shrugs, “That was what I thought… Though I might’ve been a little more… erratic.”

“But—” he stutters, his eyes wide and cheeks flushed (she takes a moment to take in how _adorable_ he looks), “How can you be sure—I mean, not that I—you—we—”

“Hush,” she whispers, pressing her finger to his lips, “you have a drawing… A portrait of me. And it’s old, and obviously you had it before the Curse, so…” She shrugs, smiling sheepishly, “I guess it could be true.”

“How is it possible?” He whispers, his fingers lingering on her cheek, his eyes wide and blue and so, so _beautiful_.

“Well,” she sighs, raising her hand to his, “That’s what we’re going to have to find out…” She bites her lip and glances towards the door. “Ready to face the music?”

He pouts (God, he’s adorable, and she _loves_ it) and sighs. “I suppose. Let’s get it over with.”

.

.

.

“It’s about time you two resurfaced,” Regina remarks snarkily, glaring at the pirate and the Savior, who just emerged from below deck, their hands seemingly permanently fused together.

When she moves, he moves.

It’s so sweet, it’s sickening.

Before anyone says another word, little Rose, who’d been chatting animatedly with David and Mary-Margret, skips over to Colin and tugs on his jeans, demanding, “Uncle Killy, up!” Emma grins a little when Colin immediately responds to Rose’s request and scoops her up into his arms.

Regina rolls her eyes, opting to go with derision and impatience rather than to show how envious she is of their little family. “Now that we have that out of the way, let’s get down to business, shall we?”

Emma sends Regina a withering glare in return, before turning her—almost murderous—gaze on Rumpelstiltskin. “You,” she says coldly, taking everyone on deck by surprise, “Tell me how this—all this—is possible. If _we_ ,” she tugs on Colin’s hand, “were married before, why can’t we remember? And how did I even get there in the first place?”

“Well, dearie,” Rumple giggles, “You were cursed, obviously. Now why anyone would bother wasting a Curse on the pirate is beyond me—but whoever did it must have been powerful.”

Regina raises an eyebrow at the sudden tension in the air, before turning back to Emma and the pirate. “Not that this isn’t all _fascinating_ , but what I would like to know is how your darling pirate got back here, alive and well.”

Emma opens her mouth, before frowning and turning to Colin. “Actually, I’d like to know that as well.”

Colin shrugs and shakes his head. “I do not know myself. I remember being sent back to the Enchanted Forest—an old friend found me and took me to a healer. That is how I survived—but I have no idea how I ended up here. All I remember is feeling lightheaded and seeing a bright white light before I woke up on the floor of the cabin.”

“An old friend?” Tink suddenly pops up behind them, pouting playfully, “I thought I was your only old friend.” Emma simply rolls her eyes in response, tucking herself into her husband’s side as he greets Tinkerbell enthusiastically.

Regina allows the exchange for a moment longer before she loses her patience and exclaims, “Now that all the pleasantries are out of the way, would you two kiss already? We will never know why you were Cursed unless you break it.”

“Why didn’t it break before?” Emma questions sharply, “I broke the Curse in Storybrooke with him—it was a True Love’s Kiss, so why didn’t it break this Curse then too?”

It’s a valid question, and silences everyone—True Love’s Kiss can break _all_ curses, and it hardly makes sense that the one Emma and Colin are supposedly under _didn’t_ break when Emma revived Colin and broke the Dark Curse.

“There’s little that can prevent curses from being broken,” Rumple muses quietly, “Especially when the force of True Love’s magic is at work—even more so in your case, Miss Swan.”

“It’s Mrs. Brody,” Emma hisses, her eyebrows furrowing as she looks up at her husband, “Or is it Jones now? It’s so confusing.” She grins when Colin just tugs her closer and whispers, “You can call yourself whatever you like, my love. If you so desire, I would take your name.” Before anyone can comment, he looks up at Rumpelstiltskin again and asks, “And what are you talking about, crocodile, ‘even more so in her case’?”

The Dark One snorts in derision and spits, “She is born from True Love—its magic is strong within her already. Now that she carries her own True Love’s child, the power would be unstoppable.”

Several things happen at once as those words are spoken—the only ones seemingly amused by the situation are Regina and Rumple.

Colin rounds on his wife, his eyes wide and filled with hurt as he exclaims, “You’re _pregnant_?!” as Emma groans loudly and slaps her hand to her forehead, shaking her head in desperation.

Rose hops down from her uncle’s arms and squeals, “Auntie Emma is having a baby!” before throwing her arms around Emma’s waist, hugging her tightly.

Neal looks like he’s going to be sick and the Charmings both wince sympathetically as Emma tries to calm down her—understandably—upset husband while trying to pry a very uncooperative Rose from her waist.

“You told them, but not me?” Colin questions, hurt ringing through clearly in every syllable he speaks, causing Emma to wince as she reaches for his hand. “I never got the chance to tell you,” she pleads, “I planned to tell you the day you got poisoned, but then… Well, you know what happened.”

Colin’s expression softens, and he allows his wife to pull him back towards her, his hand gently touching her stomach when he’s close enough. “We are with child?” He whispers so softly only Emma can hear him (not counting Rose, who’s still bouncing up and down in excitement next to them).

“Yeah,” Emma whispers, breathing out shakily when Colin rests his forehead against hers, “Yeah, we are.”

“Bloody hell, woman,” he curses under his breath, tilting his head, his lips tantalizingly close to hers, his fingers burning into her skin, his breath washing over his lips—she just wants him to lean in and kiss her already (she can’t believe she hasn’t kissed him yet).

“As much as I hate to break up a _lovely_ reunion,” a sudden voice startles them all, “I shall have no choice.”

Colin reacts instinctively, positioning himself in front of Emma and Rose. He vaguely registers the Queen and the Crocodile doing the same with the Charmings and Bae, the three of them forming a unified front against the little demon that just appeared on the deck of his ship.

“Pan,” he spits, glaring at the little shit, “What do you want?”

Pan merely chuckles, seemingly unaffected by the hostile environment he is currently in and responds, “My, my, Captain, so _aggressive._ I came in peace, you know—my Lost Boys are still in the camps. I’m here to collect on a deal that was made; it’s quite simple really.”

“No one here made a deal with you,” Rumple sneers, “We want the boy back—no deals.”

Pan raises an eyebrow and grins playfully. “Really? You have _no idea_ of the people in your midst, do you?” He eyes Emma curiously when she pushes her husband’s arm out of the way to stand at his side rather than behind him, her own arm curled back, keeping Rose behind her back protectively.

“Who then?” Emma spits, “Who made a deal with you?”

Pan just smiles, the silence on deck almost deafening until Neal steps forward, his eyes locked on Emma.

“I did.”


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

Killian is struck by the heavy silence that follows Neal’s confession, instead of the angry outburst he had expected. He is stunned by Baelfire’s—Neal’s—betrayal, though he supposes it cannot be surprising the man’s loyalties lie with Pan.

After all, both he and the lad’s father abandoned him—Pan took him in; Killian supposes Pan’s manipulations would have formed Neal from a very young age.

“Neal,” Emma says slowly, her fingers tight around Killian’s, “What the hell are you doing? Why would you trust _him_?” She gestures towards the little demon roughly, “He took Henry—or at least ordered Cora to take him.”

Neal’s eyes are wide and desperate and locked on _his_ Emma—the lad has no business looking at his wife like that—, “Emma, I did what I thought I had to. Neverland is dangerous, and… Pan promised he could help, he promised he would keep you and Henry safe.” His eyes are pleading and wide and _sincere_ as he adds, “I just wanted to keep you safe.”

Emma’s hand tightens around Killian’s again, and he looks down to find a wide-eyed and scared Rose hugging his leg tightly. He gently rests his fake hand on top of her head, glancing between Pan and Bae—Neal—nervously.

He does not like the situation they have been put in.

Their enemy is right here, on his ship, they are all unarmed—except perhaps the Queen and the bloody Crocodile—and it has just been revealed they have had a spy in their midst all along.

“What was the deal, Neal?” Emma hisses, “What did he ask of you?”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Pan interjects, and Killian tenses marginally, ready to jump in front of Pan to distract the demon-child from his family, “Let’s not be hasty now, Bae… Don’t do anything _foolish_.”

Killian winces a bit at the look of despair on Baelfire’s face when the lad pales and nods, shooting an apologetic glance towards Emma. “He won’t hurt you,” he tells Emma, “He promised.” Killian wonders briefly how deep into Pan’s mind games Neal has to be to actually believe that, but then promptly dismisses the thought when he sees Pan’s eyes fall upon him, his wife and niece again.

“Are you _insane_?” Emma screeches as Rumple steps forward, gently reaching for his son. “Bae,” the Dark One pleads, “Bae, please, this is… This is madness. Pan cannot be trusted, you know that.”

“He took care of me!” Neal yells, something dark flashing in his eyes, “When you abandoned me and _you_ ,” he points at Killian accusingly, “kicked me off your ship so you could go kill my father.”

“I didn’t bloody kick you off,” Killian spits, “You were already halfway out the door—you decided to leave, lad, I offered you a place to stay. A chance to be a family. _You_ refused.” His fingers tighten around Emma’s and he glares at Neal. “Do not blame me for your actions, Bae.”

Neal looks somewhat ashamed of his outburst, but before anyone else can weigh in, Pan draws everyone’s attention back towards him. “As much as I’d love to stay and watch the drama unfold, I will have what I came for.”

“And what did you come for?” Emma, his brave, brave wife steps forward, staring down the little demon that has been haunting children of every realm for centuries, “ ‘Cause unless it’s you returning my son and crawling back into whatever hellhole you came out of, you’re not getting anything.”

Pan laughs, shaking his head exasperatedly, and Killian moves to pull Emma back to his side, to where he knows he can keep her and their child and his precious little Rose safe.

“No, no, no, Saviour,” he chuckles, “I’m afraid I will not let young Henry go just yet. I’m here to offer _you_ a deal.” He tilts his head to the side, “I was going to give you the chance to find your son—I was even going to provide you with a map,” he glares at Killian, who simply glares back and pulls Emma and Rose a little closer.

“But now that you have your pirate back, I don’t think I will. I do have another deal for you—you can even take that one,” he sneers at Rose, “She’s been nothing but a bother since we took her.”

“Do not talk about her like that, you little shit,” Emma spits—Killian grins, shaking his head a little; he _loves_ it when Emma’s fiery spirit makes an appearance—, “And just tell us what you wanted to say.”

Pan shakes his head and drawls, “Now, now, let’s remember to play by the rules, _Emma_. I have a simple deal for you—you can leave the island. With your precious little boy, that child you carry and Rose.” He smirks evilly and adds, “But you’ll have to leave everyone else.”

Killian nearly doubles over in pain at the mere look of torn heartbreak on Emma’s face, and he reaches for her instinctively, pulling her into his embrace—he knows she should take the deal; it is a golden opportunity to get the lad back, and Killian’s certain he can find a way out of Neverland to reunite with his love again.

“No,” Emma’s voice breaks through his thoughts, and he looks down at her to find her glaring at Pan, “I will not sacrifice my entire family. We will all leave here together.”

Pan hums softly, shaking his head dejectedly, “Pity. I would’ve thought you loved your son enough to do _anything_ to get him back.” His eyes glitter dangerously as he adds, “I’m sure he’ll be _devastated_ to hear you refused the deal.” Before anyone can respond, he cackles madly and floats off the deck of the ship, “I shall return later, when you have had more time to consider—do not forget to play by the rules.”

And then there are hundreds of fierce little creatures swarming the deck, attacking everything and everyone there, Pan’s diabolical laughter echoing across the vastness of the island and its ocean.

Killian moves instinctually, grabbing both Emma and Rose and pushing them towards the stairs, all the while dodging the pixies (corrupted by the power Pan gave them)—they’re all unarmed and Emma and Rose are the most fragile two on board.

“No,” Emma struggles against Killian, “No, we have to help them.” Her eyes are wide and beautiful, and he almost lets her go—but he manages to steel himself, grabbing her shoulders and looking at her sternly. “No, Emma— _I_ have to go help them. You have to protect Rose,” he glances past Emma to where his niece is peeking over the edge of the stairs, “and our child,” he finishes, resting his fingers against her stomach. “Please. Keep yourself and them safe.”

He swallows thickly, glancing over his shoulder to the fight before turning back to his wife. “Promise me,” he whispers, his eyes locked upon hers, his heart squeezing painfully at the fear and love he can see in them.

“Okay,” Emma nods, fingers curling in his shirt when he turns away, “Do not get yourself killed,” she orders, “And kiss me before you go.”

He chuckles softly despite the bleak situation and pulls her closer. “You are a demanding woman, Swan,” he smirks, tilting his head forward so his lips are barely brushing over hers. Emma smirks back and yanks him closer by his shirt, breathing, “You know you love it.”

“Oh, I do,” he growls, before closing the distance between them and kissing his wife for the first time in weeks. There’s an immediate response to their kiss, a powerful wave of magic erupting from the both of them and nearly knocking everyone off their feet—Pan cries out angrily, screeching, “No!” and Neal looks like he’s been forced to swallow a lemon.

Emma chokes and stumbles back, breaking the kiss with a gasp, her eyes wide and tearful as they lock on Killian’s. “Killian?” she breathes, her voice barely more than a whisper, loaded with emotion. At the sound of her voice, a shuddering gasp falls from Killian’s lips, his hand shaking as he reaches up to touch Emma’s cheek.

Flashes of a life— _their_ life—seemingly click back into place in his mind, filling up the empty spaces he didn’t even know existed within his memories.

And it’s all _her_.

_His love._

_His wife._

“Emma,” he whispers, “I remember—we… Emma.”

Pan glares at the couple, though there is a hint of fear in his eyes, before he orders the pixies, “Retreat!” He turns back to Emma and Killian, who’ve finally turned around for long enough to look at him, “This is not over, Savior,” he sneers, “I still have the boy—and I’ll make sure you never get him back.” He cackles madly and crows, “Peter Pan never fails!” before soaring away into the darkened night sky, leaving them all dumbfounded.

After a long moment of tense silence, everyone turns and rounds on Neal, who cowers under their angry glares. “Take him to the brig and lock him up there,” Killian orders after a tense silence, “We will deal with your betrayal later, Bae.”

Charming moves forward, grabbing Neal’s arm roughly and dragging him down to the ship’s hold while the bloody crocodile trails after them like a kicked puppy.

Killian watches with bated breath as Snow approaches them, unsure what to say to Emma’s mother. Last he remembers, she and her husband had been _very_ clear about their disapproval of Emma’s relationship with him—and though he knows Emma would _never_ leave him because her parents want her to, he does not wish for her to be forced to choose between him and her parents.

“Do you remember?” Snow asks gently, smiling at the both of them—Killian’s confused, but shakes it off and smiles at Emma when she hugs his entire arm to her side.

“Yes,” Emma nods, “We do— _I_ do,” she frowns up at him, “Do you?”

“Of course, my love,” he smiles, his heart squeezing at the heartbreakingly beautiful, carefree smile that graces Emma’s lips. It’s a smile he has not seen in centuries, and he hates that they’d been separated because he did not heed Pan’s words—his beautiful wife had been hurt and abandoned because he was impulsive and stupid and made a deal with the devil.

His stomach churns with guilt and he almost wants to pull away from her, to prevent himself from hurting her again—but he knows that act in itself would hurt her more than anything else, so he just kisses her forehead, entwining their fingers.

“Where’s Rose?” Emma questions suddenly, drawing herself out of his embrace, looking around frantically—his heart sinks for a moment, fear that Pan took his niece again clamping around his heart like icy talons.

“She’s fine—Regina took her below deck,” Snow soothes them, “she thought you might need to… _talk_ about things.” Killian relaxes a little, though he is still tense and nervous—he and Emma do have _much_ to discuss, and it will not all be pleasant.

Emma tugs on his hand, drawing him from his thoughts gently. “Come on,” she says softly, offering him that sweet, lovely smile he fell in love with— _twice_.

He allows her to lead them down to the Lieutenant’s Cabin; it does not feel right to be in Liam’s old chambers, not now that he remembers falling in love with Emma in this cabin, spending time with her here, cuddling together on his small bunk as they giggled and kissed and acted like a pair of besotted teenagers—which is what they were, back then.

He’d been nineteen to her seventeen.

They _were_ children.

But he had loved her then. That love was different than the love he feels for her now, of course, but it had been no less potent or true. It had been purer—she had been, quite simply put, the first woman he had loved; not that there had ever been anyone who came even close to capturing his heart as she had; and that in itself had made his love for her purer and deeper.

Now, his love for her was still true and pure, but it was also darker—more possessive. He refused to even consider letting her go; even it were for her own good.

She is _his_ woman, and he is not letting her go.

He watches as she closes the door behind them, leaning back against it, biting her lower lip softly. “We first kissed in here,” she whispers, a watery smile spreading on her lips.

Killian grins wolfishly, recalling the moment with almost perfect clarity. “Aye,” he smirks, resting his hook on her hip and his hand on the door, next to her head, “I recall you kissed me.”

“Oh, really?” She grins, trailing her fingers over his cheek tenderly, “I’m pretty sure I remember you being _smitten_.” He rolls his eyes, because _yes_ , he really was smitten, and he can’t even deny it—it had been blatantly obvious for all to see.

Emma Swan had him wrapped around her pinkie finger from day one.

He kisses her then, so he won’t _have_ to admit how whipped he was, is and always will be. She giggles against his lips but kisses him back, gently and sweetly, like she had that first time, melting into his arms, the kiss going on and on until his lungs _scream_ for oxygen, and he has to break the kiss.

“We need to talk about this, love,” he breathes after a long silence, brushing his fingers up and down her arm gently, “I missed _so_ much in your life, our child’s—“ he chokes and freezes, his eyes locked on her belly, where he can barely make out the slight swell of her baby bump.

Just like last time—she’d been pregnant.

“Emma,” he chokes, his eyes finally snapping up to meet hers, “Emma, you were pregnant.”

Emma’s eyes are wide and shocked and pained as one hand moves to cover her lips while the other cradles the tiny baby bump, a choked sob falling from her lips at the realization. “Henry,” she cries, “Henry’s yours. Oh my God. He’s yours. I was already pregnant.”

He catches her as her knees give in, lowering them both to the floor gently, rocking her as she cries, as his own mind works overtime trying to understand what she just told him—what he realized the second he put the pieces together; he’s Henry’s father.

Not Neal.

Henry is his.

He has a son.

 _He has a son,_ and he missed a decade of his son’s life because of his own hot-headed stupidity, and he hadn’t even known.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, rocking Emma back and forth as she cries in his arms, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, my love, my Emma, I’m so sorry.”

“Why?” she whimpers, her eyes red-rimmed and cheeks tearstained as she looks up at him, “This wasn’t your fault, Killian, you were cursed to forget us as well.” Her fingers are soft and tender against his calloused skin, and he almost jerks away from her because he _doesn’t deserve her_ , he doesn’t deserve to be loved by someone so good and beautiful. 

“It _was_ ,” he insists, his voice hoarse, “Pan warned me that there would be aprice to saving Liam’s life, something I might not be willing to pay—I should’ve been more careful, I—” She cuts him off quite suddenly, her lips suddenly upon his.

“ _Never_ ,” she orders when she pulls away, “ _never_ apologize for not thinking while saving Liam’s life, Killian. You _loved_ him—he was your brother. You couldn’t have known, even with Pan’s warning. I would’ve done the same thing.”

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers, trailing his fingers down her jaw, in awe of the beautiful woman before him—he still does not quite believe she is his; that she, too, fell in love with him in two different lives. “You are too good for me.”

“No,” Emma shakes her head stubbornly, “No. I’m not—and you’re _perfect_ for me. Don’t you ever forget that.”

“What will we do, love?” he whispers, tightening his arms around her, momentarily setting aside his insecurities and reservations in favor of more pressing matters, such as their son needing to be freed from Pan’s clutches.

“I don’t know,” she breathes, shaking her head desperately, “I really don’t know. But we’ll find a way. We always find our way back to each other.” She smiles wryly and adds, “It seems to be our family motto.”

“Aye,” he chuckles, “Aye, that it is, love.”

.

.

.

**Meanwhile, Captain’s Cabin, the Jolly Roger—Neverland**

Snow watches warily as Regina hands Rose a sketchbook and charcoal pencils she found on the desk, sighing heavily as she considers all that they have learned today.

She is not sure when Emma and Killian will resurface—and she cannot blame them either; as soon as the Curse on Storybrooke broke, she had been planning how to get her husband alone as well. She had missed him for twenty-eight years, and the memory of those lonely years had nearly driven her mad—she cannot even imagine how painful the memories must be for her daughter and Killian, who have suffered a much longer separation in comparison.

“How do you think it’s possible?” Snow inquires quietly when Regina takes a seat on the bench next to her, “Emma travelling back in time to meet Killian? They both remember, it _has_ to be true, somehow.”

Regina is silent for another moment before shrugging. “I do not know, but I am certain that Emma’s inherent magic has something to do with it. It is the only explanation—True Love _is_ the most powerful magic there is, and I have never heard of any other magic being strong enough to enable time travel.”

Snow nods slowly, fidgeting lightly as she keeps her eyes on Rose, who’s avidly drawing something, all smiles and giggles, her terror from the pixie attack all but forgotten. “What do you think Pan wants with Henry?” she asks slowly, frowning a little, “And why would he want to give us the chance to find him? He said he was going to give Emma a map.”

“Because he enjoys playing mind games,” Rumpelstiltskin hisses when he enters the cabin, “he wants the group to fall apart, create animosity amongst us so it’ll be easier to turn us against each other.”

“That still doesn’t explain what he wants with Henry,” Charming frowns, casually leaning against the wall next to the door, “And I can’t have been the only one to notice he was trying to keep Emma and Killian apart.”

“You weren’t,” Emma says grimly as she and Killian enter the room, “And we think we know why.”

She smiles at Killian before she moves to sit with Rose, and Snow can’t help but melt a little at the sight of her daughter laughing and giggling with the little girl. Killian draws her attention back towards him by clearing his throat softly, but she doesn’t miss the tender look he gives the two girls as well.

“With our returned memories,” Killian begins, his eyes still locked on Emma, “there were a few things that became clear to us—one of those being Pan’s purpose for our son.”

Rumpelstiltskin hisses, moving forward angrily as he spits, “You have taken my son’s woman already, _pirate_ , I will not have you claim his son as well—I will rip your heart out and send you to your brother and his whore before I let you take _anything else_ from us.”

“I did not take anything from you,” Killian bellows angrily, jumping towards Rumple—Charming just barely manages to grasp him and hold him back, “ _Your_ son is the one that betrayed us to Pan and that seeks to take my wife and son from me.”

“Enough,” Emma exclaims, her arms wrapped tightly around Rose, “Enough. Henry’s not Neal’s, Gold,” she continues, glaring at Rumpelstiltskin so intensely, Snow briefly wonders if it _is_ possible to incinerate someone with a mere look—even if not, Emma is certainly giving it her best shot—, “I was pregnant when we were cursed and I was sent back,” her daughter adds, “I just didn’t remember being with anyone other than Neal. How else could I have been pregnant?”

Emma bites her lip and sighs, “I’m sorry. But Henry’s Killian’s son, he always was. We just didn’t remember, didn’t think it was possible.”

She hugs Rose tightly, holding her small body close to hers while extending her other arm towards her husband—she knows her touch will quell the rage he feels towards Rumpelstiltskin for brutally killing Liam and Prue.

She remembers the ache she had felt the second she had regained all of her memories, including those of her kinship with Liam and budding friendship with Prue—they had taken her in and accepted her without question, and she would be forever grateful for that; they were the first and only ones to ever have cared for her without ulterior motives.

She _hates_ Rumpelstiltskin for killing them out of jealousy—they were good people.

They had not deserved an end like that.

Killian gravitates back towards her, taking her hand with his good one and drawing her and Rose into his arms. “Henry is ours,” he finally says, when he feels slightly calmer, “which means that, like Emma, he is the Product of True Love.” He can see understanding and apprehension dawn in Regina’s eyes, and Snow and David both look stunned.

“Only,” Emma continues, “We think he might have a stronger kind of magic than I do.” She turns to Tinkerbelle and asks, “You said you could feel our baby’s power already, right?” When Tink nods, Emma gestures, “Well, there you have it. Henry’s our first child—wouldn’t his magic, even if he cannot access it or use it, be as potent as this baby’s?”

“Yes,” Tink says, a frown wrinkling her forehead, “It would. And it _would_ explain what Pan wants with him.”

Snow shakes her head confusedly and holds up her hands, interrupting them, “Hold up. Am I the only one not following?” She exchanges a look with Charming, who looks about as lost as she feels, and Regina, who just shakes her head and rubs her hand over her forehead tiredly.

Tink smiles and explains, “Neverland’s magic has been growing less and less potent over time—it’s like… Like it’s wearing itself out. I’d heard rumors of Pan searching for a way to replenish it, but…”

“But there wasn’t a way,” Regina says softly, “Until he found Henry. That’s why he wanted to draw Emma away from us as well,” she gestures towards Emma’s stomach, “If he can get his hand on _three_ children born of True Love, he will have powers like never before.”

“That’s why he was so displeased you are alive as well,” Emma rests her head against Killian’s shoulder, “He knows that we can stop him if we are together.”

Regina raises an eyebrow and Rumpelstiltskin cackles madly, shaking his head furiously at them. “You think you can stop Pan? There is a reason he has been left alone to rule Neverland for centuries now— _no_ _one_ can stop him.”

“We can,” Emma says determinedly, “Did you not tell me that my magic was more powerful than anything you could imagine? And that if I had my own True Love by my side, I’d be able to accomplish anything?” Something in her gaze makes Rumple recoil, which snaps Regina to attention.

She eyes Emma curiously and a small smile spreads across her lips. “You know what, Emma?” She shakes her head and grins, “I think you just might be right. We’ll be getting our son back.”

“Not yet,” Emma winces, “We have to talk to Neal first. We need to know what deal he made with Pan, and what exactly Pan is planning.” She runs her fingers through Rose’s hair with a small smile, before leaning down and whispering, “Do you wanna sleep in your daddy’s bed tonight?”

Rose claps her hands excitedly and nods. “Yes! Can I, can I, can I, Auntie Emma?”

Snow  nudges Regina and Charming, nodding towards the door—they should give Emma and Killian a moment to put their little girl (because Rose really is _their_ little girl too now, it’s obvious) to bed. “We’ll go to Neal already.” She gets to her feet and practically shoves the others out of the room—all of them, except for Tinkerbelle, who just skips along happily, leaving Emma and Killian with little Rose.

Killian grins at Rose when she demands he pick her up and carry her.

“Now, sweetie,” Emma strokes Rose’s stubborn curls from  her forehead when Killian’s put the girl down in the bed, “Uncle Killy and Auntie Emma are going to have to leave tomorrow, to get Henry back.” She bites her lip and frowns a little, “You remember that I told you about Henry, right? He’s your cousin.”

Rose nods, a serious expression on her face. “And then I get to go home with you and Uncle Killy, right, Auntie Emma?” Then, a frown wrinkles her perfectly smooth forehead. “Are momma and papa going to be there too, Uncle Killy?”

Emma winces and Killian flinches, taking a deep breath to steady himself. “No, sweetheart, they’re not.” Rose looks confused, glancing between Emma and Killian before whining, “But I miss momma and papa.” Tears start to roll down her cheeks, and before Killian can soothe her, she starts wailing dramatically. “I did naughty, but I is sorry, Uncle Killy—I just want momma and papa.”

 Emma blinks away tears of her own and pushes Killian aside gently so she can climb onto the bed with little Rose, hugging the girl close. “Shh, sweetie, it’s okay,” she whispers, trying to offer Killian a reassuring smile, “You weren’t naughty, baby. It’s just…”

Emma looks at Killian helplessly, unsure how to tell a six-year-old that her parents are dead and that they have been for a long time. “Do you remember how papa told you about Neverland, Rosebud?” Killian asks gently, kneeling so he’s nose-to-nose with little Rose.

She sniffles a little, but nods, snuggling back into Emma’s arms. “People never become grandpa’s and grandma’s here,” she hiccups, rubbing her little fist over her nose, “and I do not get bigger either.”

“Precisely,” Killian says gently, “And you’ve been in Neverland a long time, my lovely. Momma and papa and me weren’t in Neverland with you, so we had to grow older.” Rose blinks confusedly, moving her little fist down to her mouth, sucking on her thumb quietly.

“Momma and papa passed away, sweetheart,” Killian whispers thickly, “Like your grandma did, remember? They’re together now.”

“Momma’s with grandma now?” Rose whispers quietly, her tears having slowed a little, “Papa too?”

Killian swallows thickly as one tear rolls down his own cheek, “Aye, darling, they are. But you need to know that they love you very, very much, okay? Just like Auntie Emma and I do.”

“Are you going to leave too?” Rose whimpers, “Like momma and papa?”

“No, sweetheart,” Emma tightens her arms around the little girl, “No, we’re not going anywhere—and your momma and papa didn’t want to leave you either. They’re always with you, okay?” When Rose just nods sleepily, Emma smiles weakly at Killian and whispers, “You go—I’ll stay with her for a bit. Just until she’s asleep.”

Killian smiles and leans forward to kiss Rose’s forehead before he kisses Emma’s lips briefly, whispering, “I love you,” against her lips.

“I love you too,” Emma breathes, cuddling Rose a little closer as he leaves the room.

Killian steels himself as he leaves the room, mentally forcing himself to put the walls Emma and Rose tore down back up before he moves down to the hold of the ship, where the brig, and the rest of their motley crew, is located.

Snow and Charming move aside the moment he walks through the door, and for the first time in a long time, he feels like a true captain again—the kind of captain his brother would have approved of, that he would have been proud of.

“Alright,” he states loudly, striding forward, glaring at Neal, “I think it’s time you and I had a little chat.” 


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

It is slightly disconcerting to see her daughter’s husband transform from the kind, loving man she knows he can be to the terrifying pirate captain his name and reputation claim he is. His eyes seem darker—though she supposes it could be the dim lighting in the hold—as he stares Neal down, one eyebrow rising while the other man stays quiet.

Snow glances towards Rumpelstiltskin, who has been uncharacteristically quiet since they locked Neal up in the brig, briefly worried that he would attempt to kill Killian to keep him from hurting Neal. She does not want him to hurt Neal either, and she believes Neal should get a chance to explain himself, but as Charming had pointed out earlier, it’s not that simple.

Despite what Neal may have said and may believe himself, she knows he was hoping to get Emma on her own, vulnerable, so he could sweep in and rescue her.

Yet in trying to win Emma’s heart, he betrayed them all to their biggest enemy.

They don’t have time for pleasantries and polite requests—Pan has Henry, and if Emma and Killian are right, they don’t have much time before Pan will convince Henry they have abandoned him—before he will convince him that tying himself to the island permanently is the only way to have a family that will always be there for him.

She does not want to believe Henry will be susceptible to Pan’s manipulations, but she knows it _is_ a possibility, and that they can’t afford to waste any time.

“Well?” Killian’s voice breaks into her thoughts, and she returns her gaze towards him. “Do you have anything to say that could help us rescue the lad?” Snow’s not entirely sure why Killian has avoided telling Neal that Henry is not his son—but then realizes that he is attempting to use guilt to persuade him into giving up the information they need.

Regina had offered to just rip his heart out and force him into telling them everything he knows, but Snow and Rumple had vetoed that—Rumple because he refuses to let anyone harm his son, and Snow because… Well, it just feels wrong to stoop to that level, no matter the direness of the situation.

She still believes that there’s always a better way—it might be more difficult, but there’s always another way.

Neal glares up at Killian, anger burning deep in his dark brown eyes, and he spits, “Not to you—you stole Emma from me.” Killian simply rolls his eyes at him and replies, “Actually, Emma and I were already wedded by the time you met her—so if either of us should be blamed for attempting to steal her, it would be _you_ , lad.”

That throws Neal, and Snow can see him deflate, collapsing back against the bars of the cell.

“I don’t know what he’s planning,” Neal finally says, sounding tired and worn, “He said he just needed Henry’s help for something, but then he’d be free to go—that’s when he offered the deal.”

“What _was_ the deal?” Emma’s voice suddenly rings out from behind them.

Snow turns to see her daughter striding into the room proudly, moving to Killian’s side; their hands touch the second she’s within his reach—Snow notes with a vague smile—though neither of them take their eyes off Neal for a second.

Neal’s eyes widen and his mouth opens and closes a few times without a single sound coming out, before he manages to pull himself together and whisper, “I just had to tell him about you guys; so he could have Henry help him without us being there to interfere the whole time.”

“What did you tell him?” Emma asks tensely, digging her fingers into Killian’s arm, “About us? Did you tell him about the baby?”

Snow swallows thickly, remembering the mad glint in Pan’s eyes when he’d offered Emma and her children passage off the island—it had been hunger for power that she had seen in the mad little demon’s eyes, and she knows Emma is rightfully trying to find out who’s responsible for endangering her unborn child.

“No,” Neal shakes his head desperately, “No. He already knew, Emma, I swear—I would never have told him.”

“Then what _did_ you tell him?” Charming pipes in, glaring at Neal. “Stop talking in circles.”

Neal winces a little under their heavy, accusing glares and whispers, “I just wanted to help.”

Killian grumbles when Emma suddenly pulls away from him and kneels before Neal, looking him in the eye as she orders, “So help us. Help us get Henry back—what does Pan want? And what does he know?”

“Eternity,” Neal rasps pitifully, “He wants to stay young forever—that’s why he came to Neverland in the first place.”

“Okay,” Emma nods gently, and Snow can tell it takes a lot of effort on Emma’s part to stay this calm and collected. “So,” Emma continues, “Why can’t he just keep doing that? Why does he need Henry, the baby and me?”

“Because of your magic,” Neal whispers, “He said he could take your magic, all of it—yours, Henry’s and the baby’s—and that you’d be fine.” He looks up at Emma with a kind of desperate longing that makes Snow feel vaguely uncomfortable. “We’d have been able to go home, and to live a life _away_ from all this madness and magic. I know you wanted that too—you were going to leave anyway; I thought I was helping you.”

The last words are spoken so quietly and desperately, it makes them all wince uncomfortably, and Killian reaches for Emma’s hand—the way they respond to each other is quite something to see, Snow muses, as she studies Emma’s immediate response to Killian’s touch, the way they respond to each other.

Emma and Killian had always sort of been in sync—even without their memories of each other and with Killian’s Cursed memories—but now…

Now that they’re _whole_ , so to speak, it is almost like watching one person.

(She thinks that maybe, just maybe, she can see why it irritates Regina and others to watch True Love couples—it _is_ a slightly nauseating kind of sweet.)

“What did you tell him about us?” Emma persists, her fingers tightening around Killian’s as she speaks, “What’s his plan?”

“I told you,” Neal drawls, “I don’t know—he told me he could strip you and the kids of your magic and take it for himself, so he could have forever and we could be happy—without magic and fairytale people and all of the _shit_ that it causes.”

“That wasn’t your decision to make, Neal,” Emma states firmly, before getting to her feet, “Where were you supposed to take me? What was the plan?”

“Skull Rock,” Neal breathes disappointedly, “The source of Neverland’s magic lies there. He said it would make transitioning your magic so much easier and less painful that way.” Emma winces and turns, burying her face in Killian’s shirt.

Snow swallows thickly looking down at her feet when the true meaning of Pan’s words sinks in for all of them.

He hadn’t offered Emma and Neal the safe passage Neal had thought it was.

He’d offered them a swift and painless death.

“He wants to kill you,” Regina states slowly, her voice strong and calm, and Snow can only hope she would sound the same if she opened her  mouth, “He wants to take out your entire family.”

In the stunned, pained silence that follows Regina’s words, Emma’s mind starts spinning again, and the events of the past couple of hours hit her like a cannon ball in the gut.

Killian’s back.

He’s not dead.

They were married before.

Henry’s his, not Neal’s.

Rose will be staying with them from now on, obviously.

She’s pregnant.

Pan wants her dead.

He wants her babies dead.

Henry.

Rose.

The baby.

Her breathing quickens and she can feel her heartbeat rise because _God,_ she can’t do this.

She had hardly been ready to admit she wanted to have a baby with Colin before the Curse broke, and now she has more family than she knows what to do with and she needs to protect them and she _can’t_.

She’s an orphan.

She’s _always_ been left alone, and that’s what she knows, she _knows_ how to be alone, how to deal with people leaving her (even if Killian never did—not willingly, not if he could find his way back to her) and she doesn’t know how to accept that she has _parents_ , how she has a husband and kids and _friends_ —she can’t _think_.

A soft squeeze of her hand reminds her that she’s still holding Killian’s hand and that people are still staring at her and she can’t break in front of them—no matter what they say and who they are, she _can’t_ , not yet, she doesn’t know them well enough yet.

She needs to think.

She needs time to process and to figure how to be a _mom_ , because she has Rose and Henry and a little one on the way; and it’s terrifying, because she feels she can barely take care of herself, much less three tiny human beings that are totally dependent on her.

Her heart starts pounding again, and all she can think about is that she needs to get out, she needs to find somewhere she can be alone, where there will be no Mary-Margret or David or Neal or Gold or Regina staring at her and waiting for her to explode.

She just needs…

Space.

She needs space.

Before the thought has even fully crossed her mind, she is stomping out the door, dragging her pirate husband along with her.

Space.

.

.

.

She’s quiet as they return to their quarters, very nearly dragging him along by his hand, and Killian wonders if he should try to hold her, should hug her close and promise her all will be well now—they don’t have a plan, but they have an idea of what Pan is planning and they are going to fight tooth and nail to get their son back—but he has known Emma long enough to know that when she needs the comfort she finds in his arms, she will let him know.

He knows she does not like to be held when she is upset, and he does not begrudge her for the distance he knows and understands she needs while she is processing… _Everything_.

He too feels a tad overwhelmed—and that is putting it mildly—by the many things that have happened in the past couple of weeks. From being tricked into a sleeping curse, being woken by Emma and having all—most—of his memories return to being shot and nearly dying, to finding himself back with Emma with no idea how he got there, to breaking _another_ memory curse and remembering the family he and Emma had almost had…

It is _a lot_.

It is almost too much—and he knows Emma’s tendency to run when things get too complicated will not work here, and she does too.

And so he waits.

He lets her lead, and allows her to set the pace of the conversation he knows they need to have.

He shuts the door when she finally releases his hand, leaning back against it as he watches her pace the room, patiently waiting for her to get her thoughts together, to take a moment for herself and determine how _she_ feels about all the changes in their lives.

“What do I—” she begins, but then cuts off and shakes her head, running her fingers through her hair exasperatedly. “I’m _happy_ ,” she chokes, and he winces at the tears in her eyes, the pure desperation in her tone, “I’m _so_ happy that I found you—that we have Henry, against all odds, that we have Rose, and the baby and my parents, but—”

She cuts off again and when a tear slips down her cheek, he can no longer just watch and not do anything. He moves towards her, offering her the gentlest smile he can as he catches her hand and draws her close to him.

“I know, Emma,” he sighs, dropping his forehead to rest against hers, “I know.”

“I don’t know how to do this,” she cries, curling her fingers into the front of his shirt, “I can’t—I’m not… I _love_ you so much, and I’m so happy about the baby and Henry and Rose, but I can’t…” She breathes out shakily and whispers, “I don’t know if I can do this, Killian. I wanted the baby, and I wanted Henry, but I thought—”

“—you thought we’d have more time to acclimatize to the idea,” he finishes for her, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.

“Does that make me a horrible mother?” She whispers so softly, it’s barely audible, and his heart squeezes painfully at how _desolate_ and _disappointed_ in herself she sounds.

“No,” he says firmly, pushing her back a little so he can look her in the eye, “No, it does not. You are a great mother, Emma—and once everything has slowed down a little, you will see it too. It is alright to be frightened, love. I am too—but we _can_ do this. Together.”

“How can you be so sure?” She pleads, her green eyes shimmering with unshed tears, panic threatening to creep in and overwhelm her. “How do you know I won’t screw up? I was barely ready to have our second baby,” she rubs her stomach affectionately, “I don’t know how to be a mom to _three_ children, Killian.”

“Of course we will make mistakes, darling,” he offers, leading her to the bed, sitting down and pulling her onto his lap, “It is only natural—but you _are_ and _will_ be a great mother. This, I am certain of.” He strokes her cheek gently and presses a light kiss to her lips.

“And now,” he continues, “We need to sleep, my love. We will have eons of time to hash out the details after we save _our_ son. All will be well again—we simply need to persevere.”

“I hate it when you’re reasonable,” she grumbles, and he chuckles when she climbs off his lap to undress.

He chuckles and kicks off his own worn and dirty boots before moving to take off his shirt. When he looks up at Emma again, his mouth goes dry—she’s wearing nothing more than her underwear and… _is that… Is that one of his old pirate shirts?_

“Bloody hell, Emma,” he curses, his eyes wide as saucers, his mouth dry and his heart _pounding,_ because bloody hell, his wife is _gorgeous_.

She smiles coyly at him, sauntering towards him and adding a little more swing to her hips—he knows she’s doing it on purpose—playing with the hem of the shirt innocently. “You know it still smelled of you,” she comments off-handedly, straddling his hips and slinging her arms around his neck.

His head is getting clouded and he can barely focus on anything but the way her breasts subtly stretch out his shirt, the deep v-cut revealing much and absolutely nothing all at the same time, and he can barely restrain himself long enough to listen to what she’s saying.

“Did it?” he breathes back, resting his bad arm on the small of her back while trailing his fingers down from her hair to her cheek to the deep cut of the shirt.

“Yeah,” she nods, grinning as she tilts her head closer to his, her breath fanning over his lips. “It helped… When I was missing you. It was comforting. I missed you so much.” He swallows thickly at the reminder of how much she must have been hurting, how horrible it must have been for her; to think he had died, to think she would be alone in saving Henry and raising Rose and their second baby.

“I’m sorry, love,” he whispers, his fingers resting lightly on her cheek, “I missed you too—every second we were apart.” He gasps when she drags her fingers down from his neck to his chest and lower and lower as she whispers, “Show me how much, husband.”

He does.

Several times. 


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

He’s not quite certain if it’s the quiet little sniffles and the nearly inaudible shuffling across the wooden floor that awakens him suddenly, or if he simply sensed another stepping into his—their—quarters, but he is wide awake almost instantly, sitting up and squinting to get a better look at who is foolish enough to sneak into his cabin in the middle of the night.

“Uncle Killy?”

The small, scared voice makes him drop the dagger he’d snatched from the nightstand immediately, extracting himself from Emma’s embrace—he does not wish to wake her, she’d been exhausted—and padding over to where his niece is standing in her ratty nightshirt, her arms wrapped around herself and her big blue eyes wide and filled with unshed tears.

“What is it, little love?” he inquires gently, kneeling before her.

“I had a bad dream,” she whispers, reaching for his hand, “Pan came back and hurt you and auntie Emma and then he took me and Henry and tried to take my heart again.”

“Oh, darling,” he whispers heavily, gently pulling her into his embrace as she starts sobbing quietly, stroking her hair. His heart breaks at the thought of Pan getting his filthy hands on his sweet little niece—his heart shatters at the mere thought of what she’s had to go through already.

Pan’s had her for nigh three centuries and he despairs to think what horrible feats the little imp has subjected her to in that time.

“I’ll not let that happen, my sweet,” he promises, rubbing her back softly as she continues to cry against him, “I’ll keep you safe. You and Henry and Auntie Emma and the babe. I promise, little love, he’ll never go anywhere near you again.”

He doesn’t startle when Emma suddenly kneels next to him—still in nothing but his damn shirt; she is trying to drive him crazy, he’s sure of it—raising her hand to stroke Rose’s messy curls too. “It’s okay, baby girl,” she coos, “it’s okay. We’re right here. We’re not going anywhere.”

He watches in stunned admiration as his wife quietly coaxes Rose into her arms, smiling sadly when the little girl curls into Emma, allowing her to lift her and carry her back to the narrow bed. He watches as Emma climbs in too and lets Rose snuggle as close as she can possibly get while whispering quiet reassurances to the girl.

He moves slowly, getting to his feet as he processes Rose’s words.

He wishes desperately that he could take away her fears and chase off her demons—especially one as inherently dark and evil as Pan.

As if it isn’thorrible enough that Pan kidnapped her, took her from her family for hundreds of years, now he hasto continue haunting her with nightmares of ripping her family apart and taking her heart?

He freezes when that thought hits him, and he carefully replays Rose’s earlier words in his head, all color draining from his face at the nauseating realization.

_‘Pan came back and hurt you and auntie Emma and then he took me and Henry and tried to take my heart again.’_

Again.

He’s tried before.

“Rose,” he chokes, stumbling over to the bed, reaching for his niece, needing to _touch, to feel, to know_ she’s there, that she’s still here with them, “Rose, did Pan try to take your heart before?”

She peeks at him from beneath her eyelashes—and _Gods_ , she looks _just_ like her mother when she does it—and nods a little, pushing her lower lip out into a pout. “He says I is the Truest Believer and that my heart is special. But I don’t know what that means.” She tugs onhis arm until he joins her and Emma on the bed, and she wiggles around so she is snuggled comfortably between them.

“He says I is stupid and useless now,” she adds softly, and Killian feels an almost uncontrollable rage simmer through his veins, and only Rose’s grip on his arm and Emma’s gentle smile keep him from jumping ship to find the bloody git and flay him with a bloody spoon.

“You’re not stupid, sweetheart,” Emma whispers, kissing Rose’s forehead softly, “You’re the smartest little girl I know, and Uncle Killy and I love you _so_ much.” Emma’s eyes are a little watery as they meet his, and he moves his bad arm to drape across both Rose and Emma.

“We do, darling,” he confirms, “And we’ll never let you go.”

“But Pan says I is useless now. Henry is better, and if you have Henry, you don’t need me.”

Killian is astonished by how thoroughly Pan has managed to traumatize his little niece, and once again attempts to swallow down his rage in favor of comforting his distraught niece.

“Listen here, sweetie,” Emma whispers gently, playing with Rose’s messy curls gently, “We love Henry very much—just like your mama and papa love you—but you, Rose…” She swallows thickly and meets Killian’s eyes briefly before turning back to Rose, “You’re our little girl now. You are _not_ useless, sweetie. Uncle Killy and I found each other again because of you. We need you as much as we need Henry.”

“We love you, honey,” Emma adds, gently wiping away Rose’s tears.

Rose looks up at them with red rimmed eyes, her lower lip trembling. “Truly? Even if I is not the Truest Believer?”

Killian chuckles breathlessly, pressing a sweet kiss to Rose’s forehead before hugging her close as he rubs her back gently. “Truly, sweetheart. Even then. You are perfect just the way you are. Now, try to sleep, little love. You are quite safe with us.”

“Okay, Uncle Killy,” Rose whispers tiredly, “I love you. Auntie Emma too.”

Emma sniffles a little, and Killian smiles when he sees her discretely wiping away a few tears, before she whispers, “We love you too, baby girl.”

They lay in silence for a while then, their eyes locked as they wait for the little girl snuggled between them to fall asleep. Killian doesn’t need words to know that Emma’s thinking the same thing he is—Rose knows more than she thinks she does.

Pan wanted her for a reason, and it wasn’t simply because he wanted to keep Killian from ever finding Emma.

No, he’d needed _Rose_ specifically.

Killian may not know what the Truest Believer is, but apparently, it is important enough to Pan to keep Rose alive and healthy for centuries.

“We’ll have to ask Regina and Rumple,” Emma states breathily, “In the morning.”

“Aye,” Killian nods, “We do. But now, love, we need to rest.” He leans forward to kiss her gently, “Goodnight, darling.”

“Goodnight, Killian,” Emma whispers, snuggling closer to Rose, and therefore, him. He can tell she isasleep before her eyes haveeven fully closed. Killian smiles, sliding closer to his two girls before his own eyes flutter shut and sleep overtakes him once again.

.

.

.

Nausea.

That’s the feeling that wakes Emma.

Not the lovely feeling of being snuggled in bed with her husband and little Rose, not the glorious feeling of waking up well-rested after a good night’s sleep, but the toe-curling, awful, disgusting feeling of nausea.

“Oh, God,” she groans quietly, clambering over Rose and Killian—both still asleep—as quietly and quickly as she can, barely making it to the bucket she’d taken to keeping next to the bed in case of emergencies—morning sickness really is a bitch.

She can hear the others moving and bustling around already, and she briefly wonders what time it is before another wave of nausea washes over her and sends her back to her bucket.

She doesn’t even realize she woke up Killian until he is suddenly sitting next to her, carefully gathering her messy curls in his hand, his fingers scratching over her scalp soothingly. !“Oh, love,” he says quietly when she pitifully attempts to swat him away—when they were married the first time and she’d been pregnant, she hadn’t had to deal with this.

Well, there had been morning sickness, but she’d been in jail then, without anyone there to hold her hair back, and her heart aches when she realizes how much they’ve both missed out on—Henry’s first steps, his first smile, his first _everything_.

And suddenly—while still hurling into the stupid bucket with her husband holding her hair back—she realizes just _how much_ she wants this baby.

She _wants_ the chance to raise a child, to be there for every important moment in their life and she hates that she feels that way because she _loves_ Henry and she _loves_ Rose, but… This will be different.

 _She_ will be different—Killian will be.

This is their second chance.

It takes several more minutes and a whole lot more gagging before her stomach is completely empty and she’s just dry-heaving, leaning back against Killian’s chest as she attempts to catch her breath. Her eyes flutter shut of their own accord when he runs his fingers through her hair, massaging her scalp and pressing kisses to her hair and temple.

“I hate this part,” she breathes lightly, tilting her head into his palm.

“Aye,” he chuckles in response, “I cannot say that I enjoy watching you suffer.”

“It’s fine,” she sighs, “It’s not even that bad—I don’t have it all the time.” She allows him to help her to her feet and leans against him tiredly, sliding her arms around his waist and burying her face in his chest, simply breathing him in. 

“Did I wake Rose?” She whispers, never moving from Killian’s arms, her fingers eagerly exploring the bare skin of his back. 

“No, she is asleep.” he says softly, and she can hear the concern—not only for her, but also for Rose—in his voice, and feel it in the way he tenses slightly in her arms, and she hates that he’s so tense, that he’s so worried, that Pan has been ruining their life for so much longer than they even realized.

“What’s the Truest Believer?” She questions softly, nausea—for a whole different reason this time—making her stomach roll and churn.

“I’ve no clue,” Killian sighs, turning to look at the little girl snuggled in their bed, “but it’s important to Pan. Important enough that he kept Rose around for a long time. We need to know what it is, what he planned to do.”

Emma nods against his chest, sighing again before pulling herself from his arms to get dressed.

“The others are likely already awake,” Killian grumbles as he rummages through the cupboard, pulling cleaner and non-torn clothes out, wrinkling his nose in distaste as he tries to wiggle into leather pants that make Emma’s hormones and imagination spin out of control.

_‘No, bad Emma. No time for tacos. Do not think about how hot he looks in leather.’_

To distract herself, she pulls her shirt over her head and shimmies back into her tight jeans, wincing when she realizes she probably won’t be able to wear these jeans anymore in a mere couple of weeks—she hates the thought of getting bigger, and for a split-second, she wishes she wouldn’t have to deal with the insecurities about her weight and whether Killian will love her when she’s fat—and then guilt for even _having_ that thought hits her and she cringes.

The hope that Killian wouldn’t have noticed her reaction to the stray thought is dashed almost immediately when he takes her hand in his before she can leave the cabin, his eyes boring into hers as he whispers, “Love? Are you alright?”

She knows he is thinking about everything that happened the previous day—from him miraculously appearing in her arms to her brief mental breakdown and Rose’s nightmare—and she supposes she can’t really blame him for being worried about her. Emotional decisions are _not_ her strong suit, even when she’s completely unaffected by hormones, and they both know it.

She sighs and shakes her head, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek. “No. But I’ll be fine for now. It’s nothing we can’t deal with later.” She smiles encouragingly at him and shoves him lightly, just to push him out of the doorway, closing the door behind them quietly.

They’re silent as they track the others to the galley, stopping dead in the doorway as they take in the scene before them.

Regina and her parents are standing in one corner, all of them wearing a look somewhere between amusement and horror as they watch Neal—who the hell let him out of his cage?—and Rumple face off. Emma swallows thickly and subconsciously takes a step closer to her husband, taking his good hand nervously.

She doesn’t really know what happened between Neal and his dad, but she knows it wasn’t good, and she knows that if the situation isn’t diffused _really_ soon, it’ll explode and she does not want that to happen.

She may hate Rumpelstiltskin for what he has done to Prue and Liam and Killian, but she hates Pan more, and she knows they need Rumple to take on Pan.

“What’s going on?” Emma questions slowly, cautiously moving into the galley, Killian trailing behind her, his hand never once leaving hers.

“This does not concern you, dearie,” Rumple hisses, and it’s the first time Emma catches a glimpse of the _Dark One_. “This is between me and my boy,” the man continues darkly, his gaze never once leaving Neal’s.

“Don’t,” Regina interrupts when Emma opens her mouth again—though she’s not quite sure what she would’ve said to try to diffuse the situation—shaking her head, “Don’t stop them. This is going to happen sooner or later. Better now than while we are getting Henry back.”

Emma glares at Regina, but nods in acquiesce and allows Killian to lead her to where her parents and Regina are standing, all of them warily awaiting the outcome of this confrontation that has been centuries in the making.

“Why would you have done it?” Rumple hisses at Neal, and Emma’s surprised at the amount of raw emotion she can sense in Rumple’s voice, “Why would you have accepted that deal?”

Neal simply shrugs and replies, “Because I didn’t care about saving anyone but Emma. She’s the only one that mattered.” Emma winces uncomfortably, but doesn’t say anything—this is going from bad to worse, and they really need everyone to focus on Henry.

“I’m your father!” Rumple screeches in a dramatic voice worthy of Darth Vader—‘ _stop it, Emma_ ,’ she scolds herself, ‘ _so not the time.’_

“Biologically, maybe,” Neal spits angrily in reply, “But you lost the right to call yourself my father the moment you chose power and magic over me.”

Something dark flashes in Rumple’s eyes, and Emma swallows thickly, exchanging a worried look with Regina, as the Dark One takes a step closer to his son, fisting his hands in Neal’s shirt, hissing, “You would choose _her_ —the pirate’s _whore_ —over your own father?”

A tense silence falls in the galley, and everyone is staring at Neal with bated breath—though Emma is slightly distracted by keeping her pirate from charging at Rumple to beat the crap out of him for that comment—waiting for his response.

“Every. Single. Time.” Neal hisses between clenched teeth, meeting Rumple’s gaze dead on.

There’s a deathly silence on the ship for a split-second, and Emma’s heart is beating so loudly, she’s almost convinced the others can hear it too.

“I have no more business here,” Rumple giggles suddenly, and it’s like she’s watching a transformation—suddenly he’s no longer the unassuming pawnbroker form Storybrooke. It’s like he grows more confident, almost taller, and as though all sanity leaves him. “So long, dearies—the best of luck on your quest.”

And then, in a puff of crimson smoke, he’s gone.

Emma stares at the spot where he vanished, her mouth hanging open as she tries to process this newest development. “Shit,” she curses under her breath, running her fingers through her hair, “That’s just great. How the hell are we supposed to win without _him_?”

“We don’t need him,” Regina and Neal exclaim at the same time—it would have been funny had she not been so serious—and Neal pleads, “Emma, we just need to get our son back. We don’t need him  for that.”

“He’s not your son,” Emma yells exasperatedly, slamming her hand down on the table, “I was already pregnant with him when I met you. He’s _not_ yourson _._ ” She’s not sure what to call the expression on Neal’s face, but it’s something close to heartbreak and she doesn’t know how to react to that.

“Mate,” Killian steps forward, “We’re sorry—we didn’t figure it out until yesterday ourselves.”

Neal simply shakes his head and stomps out of the galley angrily, leaving them all in an uncomfortable silence again. “Look, all that isn’t important,” Emma sighs after a short silence, shaking her head desperately, “Regina… Do you know anything about the Truest Believer?”

Regina stares at them openmouthed—it would’ve been funnyif they hadn’t been so serious; it doesn’t happen all that often that they manage to render Regina speechless—before Tink pipes up enthusiastically,  a confused little frown wrinkling her forehead. “It’s a legend. There hasn’t been a Truest Believer in centuries, and the last one was presumed to have died young.”

“But what _is_ it?” Killian questions heatedly, slapping his hand down on the wooden table impatiently, “Surely you know more than that.”

“Why does it matter?” Regina exclaims, “We have bigger things to worry about!”

Emma glances at her husband, biting her lip nervously before running her hand through her messy curls. “Rose,” she says quietly, “Think about it. Pan kept her for _centuries_. Why would he have kept her alive unless he needed _Rose_ specifically?”

“Why would h—oh.” Tink’s eyes go wide with realization, and she looks between Emma and Killian nervously. “Are you sure?”

“No,” Killian shakes his head, “No—but Pan would’ve needed a reason to keep her alive for this long… And Rose said he called her Truest Believer many times. Until he got his hands on Henry. That’s when he started telling her she was useless.”

Emma reaches for his hand and squeezes it tightly—she can hear the anger in his voice, the barely controlled rage simmering just below the surface. “She’s having nightmares about it. If it was nothing,” she looks between Regina and Tink, “Why would he have kept her for so long?”

Regina almost falls into a chair, pinching the bridge of her nose as Tink begins bouncing around the room excitedly, clapping her hands and squealing in a pitch only canines can hear. “If this is true,” Regina begins slowly, looking up at Emma and Killian wearily, “we have a far bigger advantage on Pan than we originally thought.”

Emma frowns, opening her mouth before being cut off by Rose, who’s wandering into the galley in her sleeping gown, rubbing her eyes cutely as she yawns.

“Uncle Killy,” she whines softly, “You was gone.”

“I’m sorry, little love,” Killian shakes his head and moves over to his niece, “you looked too sweet to wake up.” He flicks her nose playfully, and Rose giggles delightedly, throwing her arms around his neck when he suddenly lifts her in his arms. “I am going to take her to get dressed,” he tells Emma with a soft smile, squeezing her hand gently before leaving the galley as Rose starts chattering in his ear.

“So, what does that mean?” Emma turns back to Regina when Killian and Rose are out of earshot, “What do you mean ‘a bigger advantage than we thought’?”

Tink giggles and comes to a stop before Emma, taking both of Emma’s hands in hers, “Rose can do _anything_ here. Neverland is a land made of _dreams_ , Emma. A land of endless possibility. The Truest Believer is known for his or her ability to make anything they believe come true. And that is in _our_ realm. Imagine the things she could do here.”

“Wait, so…” Emma takes a seat at the table, across from Regina, “If Rose believes something, _truly_ believes it, she can make it happen?”

Regina gives her a short nod, shrugging a little. “In theory, yes. But this is only true if she really is the Truest Believer.”

“That’s easy enough to find out,” Charming finally speaks up from the corner where he and Snow had been sitting, “If she could really make anything happen, could she not believe that Henry would find his way out of the camp and back to us without Pan or the Lost Boys knowing?”

Everyone is silent after that remark, and Emma stares at her father, her mouth opening and closing wordlessly—why didn’t she think of that?

“ _Maybe_ ,” Regina says slowly, “but that is an awfully big gamble.”

“It’s worth a shot though, isn’t it?” Tink claps her hands, “I’ve always wanted to see a Truest Believer do their magic!” The perky blonde looks around the room when the others don’t respond as enthusiastically as she expected them to, and pouts dramatically. “Come on, guys,” she whines, “this is a _good_ thing. Rose can be a very powerful ally.”

“She’s a _child_ ,” Emma spits angrily, “Not an _ally_. She’s been locked up for centuries and God knows what Pan did to her in that time—we are not going to do _anything_ that would risk hurting or traumatizing her!” She glares at the others in the room, and Tink, Snow and Charming at least have the decency to look shamefaced.

“We need to focus on getting Henry back,” Regina exclaims, “That’s all we need to think about!”

“We don’t have to get him back at Rose’s expense,” Emma yells back, stomping forward to poke Regina’s shoulder angrily, “It’s not right, and Henry would hate us for it too!”

Regina deflates at that, sinking down on one of the chairs. “If Rose really is the Truest Believer, she can help us get Henry back just like that—we wouldn’t even need to fight.”

Emma sighs, shaking her head as she and the others take a seat at the table too. “I know that. But I’m not going to force her to do anything. Pan’s tried to do that to her for years, I won’t do the same.”

Snow reaches out to pat both her and Regina’s hands comfortingly. “We will find a way. We always do.”

.

.

.

**Captain’s Cabin, the Jolly Roger, Neverland**

“Uncle Killy,” Rose giggles when Killian blows a raspberry on her stomach, “You is silly.”

Killian smiles sadly when he realizes Rose’s hair seems almost red when the light catches it—she looks just like Prue, and it makes his heart ache. “Come, little love,” he lifts her onto his lap to brush her hair as she babbles on about one thing or another.

He tunes out when she starts talking about dolls and princesses, his thoughts almost automatically drifting to his son—the son he had been forced to forget.

The son that, when he thinks about it, did not exactly like him when they first met in Storybrooke.

He sighs a little, cuddling his niece a little closer. He wants to know his boy—he remembers Emma telling him she was pregnant; he remembers the light breeze in the small market place, the feel of the cobblestones against his knees, the delicate smell of Emma’s perfume and the absolute _joy_ that he had felt in that moment.

He had been ecstatic.

And then it had all been ripped away from him to suit the desires from one devilish little imp.

And his son had grown up the way he had never wanted him to—bereft of a true family, from his true parents.

Just like he had been.

And just like that, he had broken the first vow he had ever made to himself and his future children—he had sworn that they would never have to know what the heartbreak of losing one’s parents, that they would never have to know the ache of feeling unwanted and unloved.

“Do you think of Henry now?”

Killian jumps at Rose’s sudden question, staring at her for a moment before he manages to collect himself, smiling sadly at his little niece. “Aye, little love,” he says gravely, “I do… I miss the lad. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you, darling.”

Rose puts her little hand on his cheek, looking at him with the kind of understanding and contemplation that far exceeds her age—though he supposes she _is_ far older than she looks. “Henry’s going to be here soon, Uncle Killy,” she says suddenly, conviction strong in her voice, “I know it.”

Killian sighs tiredly, turning Rose in his lap so he can lift her in his arms, “I wish it was that simple, little love.”

“It is,” Rose insists, pouting up at him. “And I want Auntie Emma now.” She looks so cute—and _just_ like Liam, with her little frown and arms crossed—and he can’t help but chuckle.

“Aye aye, Cap’n,” he smirks, swinging her around playfully, delighting in her giggles and laughter.

Once out the door, he can hear screams and excited chattering, and people running about on deck. “Come on, little love,” he sighs, “we should see what the fuss is all about.” Rose just giggles and hides her face in his neck, her little fingers clutching at his white shirt as he climbs up the ladder to deck.

“Emma?” he questions confusedly when he sees them all huddled around something he can’t see, “Love, what’s going on?”

Emma turns to him, her smile wide and radiant—he hasn’t seen her smile like that since before the Curse broke and it confuses him slightly. “Killian,” she exclaims happily, “Killian, it’s… He’s here!” She steps aside and his jaw drops as he takes in the boy that is standing in the middle of his deck, looking slightly confused, but relieved and happy.

“Henry?” He chokes breathlessly, stumbling forward towards his wife and his _son_ , his little lad, nearly falling to his knees before them.

Henry’s here.

But… What did—how did—before he knows, Henry’s wrapped in his arms along with Rose and Emma, and he can’t get close enough, he can’t squeeze them hard enough—just to be sure that this is real, that he really has his family back.

“How—” he stares between Emma and Henry and Regina confusedly, “What—”

Rose giggles again and pats his cheek. “I told you, Uncle Killy.” 


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

**Captain’s Cabin, Jolly Roger—Neverland**

Emma can’t stop touching them.

If she isn’t holding Rose, she’s sitting on her husband’s lap or holding her son’s hand—at one point all three at the same time.

Henry’s been telling them about his time with Pan, and she can tell Killian is as relieved as she is to learn that whatever mind game Pan had been playing with them, he hadn’t included Henry in them. On the contrary, he had actually been rather mellow with Henry, from what they could gather.

In fact, he’d only once _really_ attempted to turn Henry against his family.

They’d found out unexpectedly—when they had tried to tell him, gently, of course, that Killian’s his father, not Neal, he’d surprised them all by saying he already knew.

Pan had, after they had broken the Curse, stormed into the Lost Boy camp and thrown a huge tantrum, screaming and cursing loud enough for even Henry—who had been confined to a solitary shack at the edge of the camp—to have heard him.

Which was a good thing too.

Not only had Henry heard his family was in Neverland to rescue him, but he’d found out about some other key facts that cleared up a lot of things in their history—both recent and past.

“Cora’s gone,” Henry informed them flatly, “he ripped off her shadow after she yelled at him for sending mom,” he eyes Emma nervously, “back to her own time and realm. She said that mom’s magic coming back into the same realm as the Curse is why Coli— _dad_ —was able to leave Storybrooke. You called him to you and he came, mom.”

Emma gapes at her son wordlessly, blinking rapidly as she tries to understand what Henry’s telling them. “That—that’s not possible,” she stutters, looking towards Regina for support, “Right?”

Regina sighs heavily and simply shrugs. “I would say no, but after everything I have seen from the both of you, I cannot say it would surprise me.”

Henry rolls his eyes—he’s been spending too much time with Killian already—and turns to Neal, who’s been quietly standing in a corner up until now. “You said you found my mom, right? In an alley?” When Neal nods, Henry leans forward and presses, “When was that? The exact date?”

“June 6th,” Neal responds quietly, almost robotically, “2001.”

Emma can feel Killian stiffen as Regina gasps, and her own heart seems to skip a beat at the memory.

Henry leans back in his chair, grinning a little too smugly for Emma’s liking and crosses his arms over his chest—looking just like Killian when he does it (she wonders why she didn’t see it before, the resemblance between them is uncanny)—smirking, “That’s the date dad left Storybrooke, isn’t it? The very day he managed to break free from the Curse long enough to get out.”

Emma swallows thickly, and she can feel Killian’s arm tense around her waist—she doesn’t know how to react to that little tidbit.

The idea of her own magic being strong enough to break Killian free from a very powerful Curse—at least partly—is terrifying and exhilarating at the same time (mostly because he _loved_ her, even when he didn’t remember her, when he didn’t know her, he still loved her enough to come to her when she called for him).

She calms when Killian presses a chaste kiss to the underside of her jaw—she marvels at how well he knows her; she hadn’t even realized how close to freaking out she was, but he had.

“Okay, fine,” she sighs, leaning back against her husband’s chest and smiling at her son, “Even if that’s true, how the hell would Cora have known about it?”

Killian sighs and rubs his thumb over Emma’s hip soothingly as he replies, “Well, she _was_ there, I suppose. She obviously kept her own memories intact—” he grumbles angrily under his breath, “—it is likely she was there to keep an eye on me rather than return to her daughter, as she told me.”

“You double-crossed me?” Regina shrieks angrily, startling Rose, who’d been dozing in Emma’s lap, and Henry, who turns to look at his other mom reproachfully.

“Please,” Killian snorts, “You double-crossed me when you sent me to kill her in exchange for a place in your Curse and failed to mention I wouldn’t remember I wanted to kill the Crocodile.”

Emma mutters under her breath angrily when Regina and Killian enter into a stare-off (a bunch of stubborn three-year-olds, that’s what they are) before gently elbowing Killian in the stomach. “Okay,” she mumbles quietly, trying to rock Rose back to sleep, “It doesn’t matter how she knew—we should just be happy that _we_ know now.”

She looks around at the others, sparing a brief smile for her parents, before continuing, “Now all we need to do is get the hell out of dodge.”

“We can’t,” Neal interrupts, “Pan wants Henry more than anything—he was looking for him even when I was here the first time. Now that he knows where and who he is, he’s not going to stop until he gets him back.”

Emma looks at Neal and bites her lip as she considers his words. “How do we stop him then? And—” She turns to glare at Regina, “Don’t you dare suggest ripping his heart out.” Regina gives no retort, and simply snorts derisively.

“Actually,” Snow suddenly pipes in, “I think I might have an idea.”

She looks at the others and grins—a grin that gives Emma goose bumps when she recognizes it, having seen it many times in the mirror—crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s simple,” she shrugs, “We have to beat him at his own game. Pan wants to play—to pit us against each other, so he can take Henry without a fight.”

She eyes Emma and Killian and smirks, “Let him think he’s winning.”

Charming leans forward and nods. “And then we take him down.”

.

.

.

“Tell me you’ll be careful,” Emma orders, her hands obsessively smoothing down his shirt, tugging on his lapels a little harder than necessary—Killian chuckles and smiles at her as she fusses over him—, “And that you won’t do anything stupid.”

“This feels a little familiar, doesn’t it, love?” He smiles sadly, wrapping his fingers around her wrists softly, pulling her closer to kiss her forehead, as he had done nearly three hundred and fifty years ago. Emma pouts and steps into his arms, resting her head against his chest. “You didn’t come back last time we did this. You better come back this time—or I’ll hunt you down and kill you myself.”

“I know, darling,” he responds, resting his cheek on the top of her head, “And I shall come back this time.”

“Good,” she smiles against his shirt—and he pretends not to notice the little tears that leak from her eyes onto his shirt. “Don’t make me wait another three hundred years,” she orders softly, in the same no-nonsense tone she used back then.

“It was barely five years for you darling,” he grins, pressing another kiss to the top of her head as she folds herself more securely into his arms.

“Still too long,” she grumbles, before sighing and tugging on his hair. He yields when she pulls on his hair and kisses him again, allowing them both one more moment before he needs to leave with David, Regina and Neal.

“It’s fine, love,” he kisses her forehead, “The plan is sound—this will work. We will be safe. Our children will be safe from Pan after this.” 

“I love you, lass,” he breathes against her lips when she leans up to kiss him again, before sinking into his arms for one last embrace. “Love you too,” she mumbles, remaining in his arms for a bit longer—he cannot fault her for being afraid and unwilling to part; he does not like being separated from Emma any more than she does.

“Come, love,” he sighs after a short silence, “We should rejoin the others.”

She peeks out over his shoulder, to where Regina, her parents and Henry are talking—with Rose bouncing up and down excitedly next to Henry—and hugging. Mary-Margret is staying on the ship together with her, Neal and Rose.

Killian and her dad had blatantly refused to include her in the plan—both because she could better protect Henry and Rose on the ship and because of the pregnancy—no matter how much she pouted and protested.

She finally accepted when her mother offered to stay too (she did _not_ cave because her husband pouted prettily. She. Did. Not.) and when Henry and Neal pointed out they’d need help preparing the ship for their departure, though she’d still been very vocal about her unhappiness at having to stay behind.

“I still want to come with you,” she mumbles softly when they approach the others, still refusing to move from his arms—she blames pregnancy hormones for making her clingy—, “What if something goes wrong and I’m not there to help?” Her heart squeezes painfully at the memory of those painful days—weeks—without him.

She does not want to have go through that again.

She couldn’t.

“Nothing will go wrong,” Killian states confidently, pressing a kiss to the side of her head, “It is a good plan, and it will work—and we will be able to go home without any worries about the little imp.”

“He’s right,” David chimes in when they reach them, “You have to have faith. We will win this.”

Emma sighs quietly, smiling when Rose skips over to them to hold her hand, tugging on it lightly to get her attention. “It’s okay, Auntie Emma. I says so.”

Emma’s caught off guard by the knowing tone in Rose’s voice—despite having seen it firsthand when Rose told Killian ‘I told you so’—but manages a smile for the girl. “Well, if you say so, who am I to question it?” She wants to lean down and pick Rose up, but she knows that with an overprotective father and even more protective husband (who barely lets her lift her own plate), she’d never hear the end of it.

Rose doesn’t seem perturbed and wraps her arms around Emma’s waist shortly before skipping off to play with the ropes and toys Regina conjured for her.

“It’s gonna be fine, mom,” Henry rolls his eyes, “Chill out. Pan won’t know what hit him.” When everyone simply looks slightly shocked, he chuckles and shrugs, “He’s like… The classic evil villain. He thinks he’s the smartest and the best and doesn’t even consider the possibility that he might be predictable. He doesn’t make back-up plans. He just thinks he’ll never lose, and that’s why he’s going to lose this time.”

“When did you get so smart?” Regina grumbles fondly, narrowing her eyes at her—their—son, before pulling him closer to hug him one more time. “It’s time,” David sighs, looking at his watch, “if we wait any longer, we’ll lose the element of surprise.”

Their goodbyes are said quickly and almost emotionlessly—Killian knows this is weighing heavily on Emma and he loathes leaving her, but it is a necessary evil.

He needs to secure their family, and the only way to do that is to eliminate Pan.

Their plan is a simple one, and it is brilliant in its simplicity.

They can’t leave Neverland while Pan is still in control—they can’t live in peace either, knowing that Pan will not rest until he gets his hands on Henry again. Snow and Charming immediately refused the plan to simply kill him—Emma had not been too fond of that plan either—so they’d been forced to be… Creative.

Since killing Pan was not an option, they need to make sure he does not have any magic, nor the means to return to their world.

They need to completely isolate him.

And they have just the thing to do it.

He looks at Regina, who is casually strolling in front of him and David like she isn’t walking through a thick jungle, swallowing thickly.

He may have spoken bold and brave words to Emma, to ease her mind somewhat, but he is not at all confident in what they are about to do. Yes, the plan is simple and brilliant—but there is still a chance that it will backfire completely.

He has not shared his own concern with Emma because… Well, she was concerned as it was—too much stress is not good for their child and he refuses to be the cause of more worry.

“You alright, pirate?” David’s inquire catches him off guard, and he stares at the man for a moment, unsure what to say. He had, as Colin Brody, considered David Nolan a good friend—perhaps even his best friend—but when their memories returned, Prince bloody Charming had made it all too obvious he did not approve of his and Emma’s marriage.

“I will be once this is over,” he finally returns cautiously, stubbornly keeping his eyes set on Regina’s footsteps. He does not want the added distraction of worrying about getting the Prince’s approval on top of everything.

He simply wants to go home with his wife and his son and his darling little Rose and live their lives in peace.

Surely that is not too much to ask?

The Prince snorts and nods, “Yes, I think we can all agree on that. Though I don’t think it’ll get easier for any of us for a while, even when we get home.”

Killian throws him a puzzled look, frowning confusedly—but before either man can say anything more, Regina hushes them angrily, pointing at the large mass of rock in front of them.

“We’re here,” she says—and Killian knows it should not sound so ominous; but it does and he’s got a bad feeling about this—her eyes shimmering dangerously with dark power, “Shut up and be ready for anything.”

They nodded and moved.

They weren’t ready.

.

.

.

Pan had known they were coming.

Of course he’d known.

The Dark One had taken Bae’s ‘betrayal’ seriously and aligned himself with Pan—the moment Henry had escaped their camp, the crocodile had hidden himself aboard the ship and overheard all of their plans.

They had walked right into a trap.

Killian glared up at Pan, refusing to drop the dagger he’s got poised against the evil little imp’s gut, while Pan’s hand is pressed up against his chest, his fingers digging into Killian’s chest.

They’re at an impasse.

Killian’s dagger has been covered in Dreamshade, and not even Pan is immune to the poison—then again, Killian is not immune to his heart being crushed.

“No!”

Emma’s voice echoes through the darkened cave, and everyone stills, even Pan and Killian—Killian’s eyes widening in horror as he realizes Emma’s _here_ , she’s in the cave and _damn it_ , she promised. She promised she wouldn’t come after them.

“Stop this,” Emma demands, pushing forward through the chaotic mess of Lost Boys and pixies and their friends until she’s standing before him, Pan and Henry, her eyes wide and determined. Killian swallows thickly—he knows that look and it doesn’t predict much good—and decides that, whatever Emma’s got planned, he doesn’t like it.

“Swan,” he whispers, his fingers itching with the urge to touch her, to pull her behind him and protect her and their son—the one who is _on_ the ship, and the child still growing within her—from the little imp that is trying to tear apart his family.

“Now why would I stop this?” Pan grins madly, “I am winning. Soon I’ll have your boy’s heart and all the magic I’ll ever need.”

Killian can see Emma’s anger flaring up, _feel_ it in the air—almost as though the air surrounding the three of them is electrically charged. It’s making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, and he _really doesn’t like this._

“I can offer you something better,” Emma grins wickedly, glaring at him when he tries to interrupt—and suddenly he is frozen in place, his lips sewn together.

_Son of a—_

He’s not frightened—oh no, he knows the feel of Emma’s magic, and this is her trying to keep him from interfering in whatever little plan she has concocted in her head and he is going to kill her when this is all over and they’re home safely.

Damn that stubborn woman.

Pan raises an eyebrow at her, and Killian’s heart clenches in fear as he once again struggles against his magical restraints, the horrible feeling that something is about to go horribly wrong, that he is going to _lose_ and  that he cannot stop it sinking in, making his stomach twist and churn.

“Take my heart instead,” Emma offers—and that’s what makes Killian’s heart crumble.

_No. No. No._

Pan cackles madly and leans in, his fingers hovering over Emma’s chest—his eyes are gleaming with mad desire for power.

Power that Emma’s heart could give him.

He can hear the others shout, but their screams are strangely muted, and all he can see is Pan moving closer to his wife, to his _Emma_ , and he can’t stop him.

“Deal,” Pan smirks, and then, before anyone can respond or process or do anything, he buries his hand in Emma’s chest.

For a moment, it’s almost as though time slows down, as though it screeches to a halt—as Pan’s fingers curl around Emma’s heart, Killian swears he can feel his own shatter—and he can’t focus on anything but Pan’s hand in Emma’s chest.

They remain still for one more moment—no one moves, no one blinks, no one breathes…

And then Pan pulls. 


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter Thirty**

**Captain’s Cabin, The Jolly Roger, Neverland**

Henry studies Rose intently, unsure what to think of the bubbly six-year-old. She seems sweet and happy and smiley—all the time—and he knows she’s his dad’s niece, and that Pan held her captive for a long time, but he doesn’t really know what to think of her.

He knows she’ll be going home with them, obviously, since her parents are long gone, and that she’ll be living with his mom and his dad all the time, and so will the new baby—oh, he knows about that too; Pan had been _very_ forthcoming on that subject—while he’ll be spending time with his other mom too and he’s just…

He’s not sure if he should be jealous of Rose and the baby.

The baby will be getting everything he didn’t—their parents together from the very start. They’ll be taking care of him or her and be there for them for every little thing.

Every little thing they didn’t witness with Henry.

He sighs heavily and watches Mary-Margret—Snow White, his _grandmother_ —bite her lip nervously and stare out the window. Emma left little over an hour ago, following the others despite their protests, and though he knows that the men will be furious—Neal sure wasn’t happy when Emma handcuffed him to the wheel so he couldn’t stop her—Henry’s happy that Emma and Killian are facing Pan _together_ instead of alone.

He can’t help but feel a little proud that he’s their son.

He’s the son of Emma Swan, the Savior, and Killian Jones, also known as Captain Hook—and he knows that they’re out there right now to make sure _his_ future isn’t threatened by Pan anymore.

“Henry,” Rose squeals happily as she skips over to him, drawing him from his thoughts, “Will you play with me?”

Henry can’t help but smile a little at the sheer enthusiasm in her voice and nods, letting her drag him across the cabin and position him just the way she wants him to sit so they can play with ancientlooking marbles she managed to find somewhere.

“Where’d you get these, Rose?” He asks curiously as Rose starts, looking completely fascinated by the marbles and the way they bounce off each other.

“Papa gave them to me,” Rose replies simply, “He always gives me presents from far places when he comes home.” She looks down at the marbles and pouts, “Maybe he is bringing back a present from where he and momma are now too.”

Henry swallows thickly and immediately feels guilty for being jealous of her—of course she should spend time with his mom and dad too. Her own parents are dead, and though she can obviously barely comprehend what that means, she knows enough to understand she’s not going to see them for a long time.

“Do you know what happened to them?” He asks her gently, his curiosity stirring. He knows her parents died, but he has no idea how or where and if Rose was there when it happened.

“Uncle Killy said they went to where Grandmama is,” Rose pouts, “Because I is in Neverland, and I stay little here, and they had to become really old.”

Henry shifts uncomfortably, taking his turn with Rose’s marbles as he tries to think of something to say that’ll distract Rose from her parents and missing them. Without really intending to, he falls into an easy conversation with Rose and Mary-Margret about Storybrooke, while his thoughts drift to his parents and his considerably mixed feelings when it comes to them.

He realizes it’s been less than a month since Emma broke the Curse and all he could think about was that he was finally getting a full, real family, but it feels like it’s beenmuch longer.

He’d been forced to believe that Colin—who he’d thought was his stepdad but turned out to be his real dad—was dead, and that he was never going to see him or either of his moms ever again, he’d been kidnapped by one of his favorite fairytale character (needless to say Peter Pan moved down his favorite list _very_ quickly), he’d seen a woman die in front of him and he’d learned that his parents _did_ love him and _did_ want him when they found out they were having him.

Pan had set out to ruin his and his parents’ lives long before they were even aware of who Pan was.

He looks up when Neal bursts into the cabin, carefully considering the man before him—after all, he had thought him to be his biological father for a while.

Before Pan burst that bubble too.

He’s not sure what Neal did to his mom ten years ago, but from what he’d gathered from Colin and his other mom (when he stopped being angry long enough to actually listen), it wasn’t good.

He opens his mouth to ask—he really is curious and wonders if he should punch the man in the face for hurting his mom—when the ship suddenly jerks violently, and they all stumble, falling to the floor in a tangle of limbs.

“What the—” Neal exchanges a panicked glance with Mary-Margret as they pick themselves up from the floor, while Rose crawls to Henry, tugging on his hand insistently until he looks at her confusedly.

He too wants to know what is going on—it didn’t feel like a normal earthquake (then again, this _is_ Neverland, he guesses nothing will be normal)—and it seems like neither Neal nor Mary-Margret are going to have any answers to give.

“Henry, come,” Rose tugs on his hand again, pouting at him when he just stares at her in confusion. “We go help Uncle Killy and Auntie Emma now,” she states with certainty, like it’s a fact—something that is not up for negotiation.

“Rose, we can’t—” he protests feebly, cutting off into a horrified gasp when he realizes that they’re not on the ship anymore, but on the beach. Skull Rock is looming in the shadows before them, and Henry can’t help but shiver. He is not stupid; he knows what Pan had planned for him in there, and when he’d managed to escape—or just walk out—of Pan’s camp, he had never been more relieved to know he wouldn’t have to enter those gloomy caves.

He should’ve known it had been too easy.

“Rose, we’ve got to go back to the ship,” he whispers urgently, pulling her back by her hand when she skips forward towards the rocky formation.

“No,” she shakes her head stubbornly, “We help Uncle Killy and Auntie Emma now. Ship later.”

There’s a glint in her eye that makes him shut up, and he remembers what he had heard his mom and dad say before they left—the Truest Believer.

Rose is the Truest Believer and he is the Product of two generations of True Love.

Maybe they _can_ help them win.

He looks up at Skull Rock again and swallows thickly before looking down and sighing. Well, he guesses he wouldn’t really be a part of the Charming family if he didn’t try to stage a daring—and slightly idiotic—rescue every once in a while.

“Fine,” he tells Rose, “Fine. Let’s go.”

.

.

.

It’s strange—Emma had thought it would hurt more.

She’d spent a great deal of the way to Skull Rock thinking that it would hurt like hell, to have her heart ripped out of her chest.

After all the word ‘ _ripping’_ implies pain and a bloody mess and she’d been a little scared. She knows it’s quite probably the stupidest thing she’d ever do and the biggest gamble she’d ever take, but it’s a necessary one.

She can’t let Killian and her dad—and even Regina—do this on their own.

It was never even an option—not for her anyway. She’s never been one to stand at the sidelines and watch other fight her battles, especially not when she just _knows_ she can help them, that she potentially holds the key to them _winning_.

She also didn’t think her mind could be thinking about so many different things at the same time—at least not while someone else’s hand is squeezing her heart—but it is. It’s whizzing and whirring, and she’s almost surprised no one can hear the metaphorical wheels in her head turning.

It’s nothing as dramatic and stereotypical, like her entire life flashing before her eyes, or her many regrets choking her up and making her want to cry—no, it’s not like that at all.

She _does_ , however, think of her husband—she regrets that if this goes wrong, he’ll be forced to watch her die, and she never, ever, wants him to go through that kind of pain—, and her children—of Henry and Rose and the little bean that is still growing safely in her womb.

She hates that if she doesn’t pull this off, she won’t be there to see her son and little Rose grow up into the strong, beautiful people she knows they will be.

She hates that the little bean would die along with her, before he or she even got a chance to live.

She _hates_ the Dark One—Rumpelstiltskin—Gold—whatever he wants to be called—for betraying them; for behaving like a hormonal teenager who wants to get back at them for supposedly _wronging_ him.

For killing Prue and Liam.

For being the reason their darling little Rose is an orphan.

But most of all, she _hates_ Peter Pan, for forcing them into this position.

She can feel Pan’s fingers tighten around her heart, can see his arm disappearing his chest, but she doesn’t quite _feel_ it. All she’s experiencing is a slight breathlessness, but that could just be nerves and adecrease in her stamina—she did run all the way from the ship to Skull Rock.

It’s silly how time seems to slow down around them—she’d always mocked slow motion in movies; she’d never quite understood how _long_ one heartbeat could feel until now.

She holds her breath when Pan meets her eye, smirking maliciously, and pulls his hand back.

It’s empty.

She can hear everyone gasp—including Pan—and stare at the little imp’s empty palm.

She knows it was a ridiculous gamble—trusting Rose’s powers and her own enough to ensure her heart couldn’t be taken—but that had been the point. Mary-Margret was right; they need to beat Pan at his own game. They needed to make him believe he was going to win—she needed to make everyone to believe they were losing.

She grins, unable to hide her glee—she’d been right; it worked—, and quickly grabs hold of his arm while releasing the magic that is holding Killian and their other friends in place. Her heart is beating wildly in her chest and adrenaline is rushing through her veins, making her feel lightheaded and dizzy and giddy all at the same time.

“Bad form, Pan,” she smirks, narrowing her eyes at him, “Didn’t anyone ever tell you? You can’t take a heart that belongs to someone else.”

Killian suddenly appears at her side—she doesn’t dare look at her him—she’s pretty sure he’ll kiss her, kill her and then have Rose bring her back to kiss her again for pulling a stunt like this—and claps a black leather cuff over Pan’s wrist as he spits, “It’s one of the advantages of being True Love. But I bet you knew that—it’s why you separated us in the first place, isn’t it?”

For a glorious, perfect moment, she thinks they’ve won. She breathes out in relief, reaching for Killian’s hand—even though she still can’t look at him—smirking smugly at Pan.

And then Pan starts laughing.

Deep, uncontrolled laughter, as though their efforts to stop him are the funniest thing he’s ever experienced.

“I have to hand it to you,” Pan chuckles breathlessly as they all stare at him, dumbfounded—Emma’s still trying to wrap her head around how this went so _wrong_ —, “You are _very_ determined. I like that—I like a challenge. Unfortunately,” his eyes darken, and his skin seems to grow more translucent and thin—it’s the first time Emma’s ever seen the true demon that lies beneath Pan’s youthful appearance and it shakes her to the core—, “I’ll have to kill you now—since your pretty little bracelet,” he shakes the arm with the cuff at them, “doesn’t work.”

“Yeah…” Everyone whirls around to stare at Henry and Rose, who’ve both seemingly appeared out of nowhere. “About that,” Henry says slowly, nervously—and he should be nervous, Emma fumes quietly, glaring at her son, she’s going to kill him when they get out of here—, “I think we’ll have to disappoint you, Pan.”

Pan cackles madly, shaking his head. “It does not work, boy!”

“Yes,” Rose suddenly interrupts, a hushed, tense silence filling the caves as everyone stares at her—it’s completely baffling to realize that the smallest girl in the room is also the most powerful out of all of them—, “It does.”

There’s a split-second of silence…

And then Pan screams, a blinding flash of light erupting from the bracelet as the ground beneath their feet begins to shake. “No!” Pan screeches, clawing madly at the cuff—desperately fighting their light magic.

She keeps her eyes locked on Pan’s as the land starts to shake and crumble around them as Pan’s magic is violently ripped away from him, sucked into the cuff that Emma and Regina charmed together—and that Henry and Rose managed to activate.

She barely hears the thundering noise of rocks crashing down onto the floor—it’s as though Pan is trapping her with his gaze, and she can barely muster up the strength to feel panic, to feel fear.

She can’t even move.

She knows that they should leave—that the different kinds of magic converging in the caves can only end badly—magic as dark and twisted as Pan’s clashing with pure magic like her own and Rose’s and Henry’s… It’s going to explode and it’s dangerous and she needs to _go_.

But she can’t tear her eyes away.

She’s fixated, and though she can feel Killian pulling at her arms, can faintly hear him yell at her, she still can’t get her body to cooperate—she can’t look away, not even as she feels her husband literally drag her out of the caves.

She’s relieved, in the back of her mind, because it’s good, it means they’re going to safe—they’re only halfway to the exit when Pan vanishes in a flash of light that’s brighter than the sun… And then the world goes dark.

.

.

.

He’s on his back when his sight, hearing and sense of smell abruptly return to him—an onslaught of noise assault his sensitive ears, and he chokes on the smoke and debris-filled air, rolling onto his stomach as he coughs and hacks violently, attempting to expel the foul air from his lungs.

The air around him smells heavy, thick—stale with the odor of blood and dust.

_Emma. Henry. Rose. Baby._

_Emma._

He forces himself to sit up, blinking dazedly as he sits amongst the rubble—listening to the moans of those wounded and the cries of children. “Emma,” he breathes, shaking his head to get rid of the haze that clouds his mind. He needs to get to Emma—they need to go back to the ship.

Rose had taken the others back to the ship already—he does not care how she did it, he just knows she did—and he and Emma need to join them.

He looks around, taken aback by the sheer devastation and wreckage surrounding him. He is at the mouth of the cave—the walls and floors are cracked where he is sitting, but further into the caves, the stone walls are completely shattered, and large rocks are continually falling from the ceiling, striking the ground with loud, resounding _cracks_.

The Lost Boys are fleeing the caves, screaming at each other and at him, streaming towards the woods, dragging their wounded friends with them. He doesn’t pay them much mind—as long as they leave him be, he cares not for them.

Desperately, he searches the rubble for his wife, panic and fear trickle down his spine, his heart pounding in his chest painfully. The feeling does not abate when he finally _does_ spot her, because she’s on the ground, and she’s not _moving_ —she’s not moving and it’s like his entire world screeches to a halt.

“No,” he chokes, stumbling forward, “No, no, Emma!”

He drops to his knees again, ignoring the smarting ache of cuts on his knees, stroking his thumb over her cheek tenderly, wiping away the dirt and dust of Pan’s explosion as he chokes down a sob—she’s okay.

She has to be.

They didn’t go through everything that they went through just for him to lose her now.

He refuses to believe that.

“Wake up, darling,” he whispers, dropping his head forward to rest against hers, “Please, love, don’t do this now—wake up.” She moves, inhaling a little—he nearly cries in relief and his heart feels considerably less constricted—shakily raising her hand to touch his. “Open your eyes, beautiful,” he whispers, taking her hand in his and pressing a soft kiss to it.

She grumbles incoherently, but she complies, and he’s greeted by the sight of deep, beautiful _green._ She looks confused, and he can see a shimmer of pain in her eyes, but she’s focused on him and he can’t help but smile—because even when she’s covered in sooth and dirt, she’s the most beautiful woman in the world to him and she’s _awake_.

“There you are, love,” he laughs wryly, pressing several small kisses all over her face. “It’s over—you’re safe. _We_ ’re all safe.”

She furrows her brow and her lower lip protrudes into a small pout as she breaths, “Head. Hurts.”

He jumps at that, carefully touching the back of her head, breathing in sharply when he pulls his fingers back to find them slick with blood. “Bloody hell,” he curses under his breath, looking down at Emma for a short moment as he debates whether or not to pick her up and carry her to the ship.

Eventually, he moves to gingerly lift her in his arms, quietly murmuring in her ear—he doesn’t want her to fall asleep and not wake up. “Shh, darling,” he coos when she whines under her breath, burrowing her nose into his neck.

“It’s okay, love,” he says once more, though he is not sure if he’s talking to himself or to her—he just needs to get her back to the ship so either Rose or Regina can heal so he can yell at her for being stupid and putting herself and the baby in harm’s way.

That is, he fumes a little, after he’s done shouting at their children for pulling the same stunt.

.

.

.

“What the bloody hell were you thinking?”

Killian’s voice is hushed—they are outside the Lieutenants Cabin—, but he’s still furious, and Henry knows it too—he knew he’d be in big trouble the moment they got back to the ship. Rose—lucky—was sleeping in the Captain’s Cabin. The little girl had practically fallen over after she’d magically transported everyone but his mom and dad back to the ship, and his other mom had gently scolded her for using so much magic all at once as she and his grandparents carried Rose below deck.

He’d been lucky there—they’d been too preoccupied with Rose to scold him for following them to Skull Rock. At least until his dad came back, carrying an unconscious Emma—who is now fully healed, thanks to his other mom, and sleeping in the Lieutenant’s Cabin.

Before Killian yelled at him, he’d asked him and Rose to bundle their magic with Regina’s and create something like the Pegasus sail he had burned hundreds of years ago.

Henry had been nervous, but it had been easier than they thought.

They were now smoothly sailing through the clouds, back to Storybrooke—because Killian refuses to leave Emma’s side for longer than a few minutes, Neal and Charming took over sailing duties until Emma awoke.

He’s kind of torn about the experience of having a dad to yell at him when he does something stupid—and he knows he was stupid to let Rose take him to the caves, it was ridiculously dangerous. It’s _nice_ , in a messed up way, knowing that his dad cares enough to be mad at him for putting himself and Rose in danger—he hadn’t always been sure that Killian liked him, back when Henry had still thought he was his stepdad.

“We just wanted to help,” he tries to explain, gesturing wildly, “there was this big earthquake-thing and Mary-Margret and Neal didn’t know what was happening and we were worried! Rose just… I don’t know how she did it, but one minute we were here and the next we were there, and she said you needed help—and you _did_!”

He’s nervous and a little scared but he _knows_ that whatever he and Rose did to that cuff Pan was wearing helped them win and he’s proud that it did.

“That’s not the point, lad,” Killian exclaims angrily, “you could’ve been _killed_ —you _know_ Pan wanted you for whatever godless reason! With you so close, he could have simply taken you _and_ Rose again and we would have lost you all over again!”

Henry winces a little when he hears the lingering fear in his dad’s voice and sighs. He really had just meant to help his family—not cause them more worry.

“Okay, fine,” he sighs, “I’m sorry for making you worry—but I’m not sorry for helping,” he adds defiantly, glaring at his dad a little. The man chuckles a little and finally nods, clapping his hand on Henry’s shoulder. “Fair enough, lad—you are a Jones, after all. I’d be surprised if our stubbornness was not passed over to you.”

Henry grins proudly—he thinks he actually likes being part of an actual family—and nods. “I’m gonna check on Rose now. You should look after mom.”

“I will, lad,” Killian nods, smiling gently.

Henry turns and heads down the narrow hallway, frowning a little as a thought strikes him. “Hey… Killian?” He looks around and bites his lip nervously, “I don’t think… I don’t think I’m ready to call you dad yet… But—when we get home—can we do some stuff together?” He shuffles his feet a little and adds, “You know, like real father-son things?”

He watches as Killian’s eyes soften, and a small smile spreads on his lips. “Aye lad,” Killian says hoarsely, “I’d like that.”

Henry just nods. “Good.”

.

.

.

He can barely see her face peeking from beneath the blankets Mary-Margret covered her in. He is relieved now that she is healed and will be fine—his panic and fear have once again been replaced by anger and frustration.

He is furious with her—not only had she placed herself in direct danger, she had endangered their unborn child, and he cannot simply let that go.

Emma mumbles and wiggles a little, the quilt slipping down, uncovering her shoulder as she hugs his pillow to her chest. Guilt slams into him and makes his gut clench painfully—perhaps she had not been the only one at fault. Perhaps he had not adequately shown her how much he loves her and their children—perhaps he should have protected her better.

“Killian?” Her voice emerges from the mountain of quilts and sheets, and her messy golden curls appear as she sits up, rubbing her palms over her face—his heart clenches painfully; Gods, she’s beautiful; but he steels himself. He’s mad at her, and he refuses to let her get away with endangering their baby.

“I’m here,” he says calmly, forcing himself not to yell at her.

Not yet anyway.

“What happened?” She asks groggily, rubbing her hand over her forehead—he’d assumed she’d have a pretty bad headache despite the healing; she hit her head pretty hard.

“Pan exploded,” Killian shrugs, “That’s what it looked like anyway. You hit your head, I think—you were rather out of it earlier.” He knows he is being cold and vague and that it is probably the last thing she needs right now—but he cannot put her needs first this time.

He needs to be mad, he needs to defend their unborn child, because it’s clear she’s not going to and he’s _furious_ about that.

She seems to realize— _of_ _course_ she does, she can read him as well as he can read her—and tosses the quilts back, carefully approaching him. “Emma,” he growls, “Don’t—I’m mad at you, damn it.” Her eyes widen and shine with tears and _damn_ _it_ —he needs to stay mad.

“Killian,” she chokes, “I had to—you need to understand, I couldn’t just sit and do _nothing_.”

“That’s _exactly_ what you had to do,” he exclaims angrily, “You _promised_ , Emma!”

“You’re being ridiculous!” She shouts back just as loud, angrily poking his chest—which only serves to infuriate him further ( _bloody stubborn woman_ )—, “I _needed_ to do this! He’s _my_ son!”

“He is _mine_ too,” Killian practically growls at her, “We had it under control!”

“ _Please_ ,” Emma spits, “You were a second away from getting your heart ripped out! This is _my_ life, Killian—you’re _my_ husband and I almost lost you already and I _refuse_ d to let it happen again!”

“No,” Killian screams, stepping forward to corner her against the door, “It’s _not_ your life—you. Are. Pregnant, Emma! It wasn’t _just_ your life, it was _his_ too! You endangered our _child_! How am I supposed to just let that go because you couldn’t _stay put_?”

Emma gapes at him, and he knows he struck a nerve—she always fires up when he questions her parenting (not that he does all that often). “That—this isn’t—” she stutters, her eyes wide, “I did _not_ endanger our baby, I wouldn’t—I _knew_ my heart couldn’t be taken!”

“But _I_ didn’t,” he cries, slamming his fist           against the door next to her head, “I _didn’t_ and I thought you were going to _die_.”

“Maybe I wanted you to,” she slams her fist against his chest, her voice almost breaking as she cries, “Maybe I _wanted_ to make you feel what I did! I thought you _were_ dead for a month! You _died_ in front of me!” His heart clenches painfully, and they are silent and completely still for a split-second before they crash together, their lips clashing into a messy, uncontrolled kiss, teeth nipping and biting and hands impatiently tugging at anything they can reach.

He can’t think clearly anymore—he can’t think about anything but that he needs to make her understand how bloody _terrified_ he was when she showed up and let Pan take her heart.

He groans when she wraps her legs around his waist, returning his kisses just as forcefully—he feels as though she’s a force of nature and he’s barely keeping up, barely able to breathe. He carries her to the bed hazily, dropping her onto the bed unceremoniously, pressing his hand down on her stomach when she tries to wiggle down to rub herself against him.

“No,” he says darkly, anger and lust and desperation still flooding through his veins, clouding his mind and his good judgement, “No—you will lay there and take it.”

He doesn’t wait for her to answer to dive back down and lose himself in her.

.

.

.

Emma’s breathing heavily, peeking one eye open to look at her husband, who’s staring up at the ceiling wordlessly. “You know,” she whispers, “I didn’t mean that. I never wanted you to hurt—ever. I’m sorry I scared you. I’m sorry I didn’t listen.”

He’s silent for another moment before he rolls onto his side and sighs. “I know, love. I’m sorry I got so angry—I just…” She cuts him off and shakes her head, snuggling into his arms, her fingers curling around his necklace as she burrows into his chest.

“I know,” she tells him, tangling their legs together and sliding her arm around his waist. “I’m sorry. I love you.”

“And I you, darling,” he breathes back, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

They lay in silence for a moment longer, enjoying the simple _calm_ of the moment when it’s suddenly broken when Henry storms into the room—without knocking, of course—exclaiming, “We can see Storybrooke! We’re almost home!”

Then he takes in their—very nude—appearance, the quilt only partly covering them, his eyes wide and disgusted. “Oh God, ewe,” he exclaims, “Seriously? Couldn’t you two wait until we got home—that’s just _gross_.” He runs right back out, leaving Emma and Killian staring after them, their mouths both wide open, unsure what to say now.

It’s not until she meets her husband’s eye that Emma snaps out of it and starts giggling, burying her face against his chest as he wraps his arms around her, laughing with her.

“Well love,” Killian chuckles, “Now that we’ve managed to defeat a villain, had angry sex, cleared the air and traumatized our son, what do you say we go home?”

Emma looks up at Killian, at his sparkling blue eyes—eyes that she fell in love with over and over again, in more than one life—his teasing grin and the tiny wrinkles around his eyes when he laughs, and feels her heart swell with how much she loves him—then, now and in the future.

Home isn’t something you _just_ miss.

It’s not a place.

It’s with a person—or several. It’s where you feel welcome, even at your worst—because they’re not going to run away when the going gets tough.

That’s home.

And she’s found it with him.

She’s had to travel across time and space to find it—but she did.

“Yeah,” she smiles broadly, “Let’s go home.”


	31. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

**Three years later—Storybrooke—Jones’ residence**

Emma stretches languidly, sighing happily.

She enjoys the tranquil quiet in the house—for however long it lasts. With a mischievous toddler, a stubborn and entirely-too-curious-for-her-own-good preteen and a brooding teenager in the house, it’s understandably rarely calm and quiet.

Emma’s learned to savor each moment over the past three years.

“Mom!” Her fourteen-year-old son bursts into her bedroom, “Are you still not up?” Henry crosses his arms over his chest and pouts, “You need to get up, or we’re going to be late.” Emma sits up with a sigh, her thick, messy curls falling in her eyes.

“It’s only nine, Henry,” she smiles gently, “The wedding is at eleven.”

Henry rolls his eyes—she swears that’s something he’s picked up from his father—and plops down on the bed next to her, dropping one hand to rest on Emma’s once again swollen belly. “I know,” he grumbles, “but I said I’d meet Grace there early, and I also promised dad I wouldn’t leave you alone.”

Emma chuckles and runs her fingers through Henry’s perpetually messy hair—another thing he inherited from Killian—, smiling gently. “If you want to go see Grace, sweetheart, then go. I _can_ take care of myself.”

Henry frowns a little.

“What if you faint again?” He asks, “You nearly fell down the stairs last week. “ Emma rolls her eyes at that—it was only once, because she hadn’t eaten enough, and of course everyone keeps reminding her of it—and shakes her head.

Yes, she is having a harder time with this pregnancy than she’d had with Henry or with Liam’s—but that is normal.

She _is_ a bit older now.

“I’ll be fine, Henry. Go see Grace—and check in on Rose and Roland, okay? I think Regina has more on her mind than those two little devils right now. I’ll meet you at the church.”

Henry sighs, but nods and leaves the room with a quick whispered goodbye—Emma smiles a little at that. Things are different now; Henry and Killian, when they had just returned from their adventure in Neverland, had both made a genuine effort to bond, as father and son, and with every day, Emma had seen her son grow into a miniature version of her husband.

It had made her cry a lot too back then—but she blames _that_ on her hormones running rampant in her body.

Things have changed monumentally in the past three years.

On one hand, Storybrooke has never been safer than it is now—that is not to say it has been safe and calm over the past couple of years; quite the contrary. Only a few days after they had returned from Neverland, the Wicked Witch had blazed into town, causing mayhem and death—they had lost a few good people in the fight to subdue her—including Neal and Sidney Glass—but in the end, it had been Regina who saved them all.

Because in coming to Storybrooke, the Witch—Regina’s long lost sister, apparently—made one mistake. She came by another Curse, and brought those who were still left in the Enchanted Forest along with her—including Robin Hood.

The man with the lion tattoo—Regina’s True Love, as Tink informed them.

Robin, and his adorable son, Roland, had blown into Regina’s heart and life and gave her the strength she needed to defeat her sister once and for all.

Killian and her parents had banned Emma from actually participating in the fight—she was pissed at the time, but she _did_ understand; she had been six months pregnant with their son by then—so she just helped as much as she could by doing research with Belle, whining to her husband at night after Rose and Henry went to bed and bursting into tears every time Killian and her dad left to go confront the witch.

Emma had gone into labor in the middle of their last big battle with the Witch—of course—which led to the Witch almost being able to steal their baby boy; their little Liam. Though she still wasn’t sure what Zelena would have done with her second son, Emma was glad Killian and her father had been able to stop it so Regina could defeat Zelena.

That, of course, did not mean Storybrooke had been quiet after the witch had been disposed of—no, there had been a smattering of villains to find their way to Storybrooke after that; not to mention Queen Elsa (who Emma immediately became friends with).

But it’s been good for a while now.

And she hopes it stays that way.

She sighs a little at the memory and tries to shake off her overly dramatic mood—today is supposed to be a happy day for everyone in Storybrooke.

The witch has been defeated, families have been reunited after decades of separation and fear and everyone is okay.

Life is good.

Henry’s growing like weed—as is Rose, who loves having someone her own age around (that, and Roland is adorable with her, and Emma swears they’re going to end up married someday)—and Emma and Rose have been working on controlling and training their magic together with Elsa.

Liam isn’t quite old enough to start yet, but Emma knows she can’t postpone letting him learn how to control it for too long.

Henry doesn’t seem to possess the same kind of magical quality that Emma and Rose do, and Regina speculated that it might just manifest in other ways—whereas Rose and Emma can use spells and incantations and alter something’s physical state—like Liam—, Henry seems to be able to do the opposite. No spells or incantations, but the ability to convince people to see things differently—to speak to them charmingly and charismatically.

Emma hadn’t noticed until Regina remarked it, but a lot of people—children as well as adults—seem to flock towards Henry when he is telling one of his stories.

She’s snapped from her thoughts when she hears the front door slam closed, and the pitter-patter of small feet and giggles before her two-year-old son bursts into the room, jumping onto the bed excitedly, squealing, “Mama, Mama, Mama—I help Papa with big boat.”

She groans a little as she wiggles around until she’s sitting up—which is quite the feat, seeing as she’s seven months pregnant with twins by now—grinning at her son, who’s animatedly telling how he spent the last two days sailing with his daddy.

“I missed you, Mama,” Liam finally concludes, moving to hug her so carefully, it makes Emma heart ache—it had taken her youngest quite some time to realize that he couldn’t be so rough with his mother as usual, but once he _did_ , he turned into _quite_ the little gentleman.

Emma’s sure her husband’s behind that.

“I missed you too, baby,” she hugs her son back tightly and presses a kiss to his unruly blonde curls. “Now where’s your Papa?” She asks when Liam starts wiggling impatiently in her embrace—a clear sign the hug has lasted long enough in his opinion.

“Right here, love,” Killian smiles as he enters the room, immediately moving to her side to press a kiss to her lips before his hand moves to touch her belly. “How are you and the little ones?”

“We missed you,” she pouts dramatically, “And Robin was getting a little freaked out—you _were_ cutting it a bit close. You’re the best man; you can’t miss the wedding.” She reluctantly allows him to pull her to her feet—it’s become quite difficult on her own, since her belly is ridiculously large and she feels like a beached whale more often than not—while their youngest son starts hopping up and down on their bed excitedly.

Killian chuckles and rubs her ginormous belly as he kisses her forehead. “The winds did not favor us, love—I am not the one with magical powers, I couldn’t teleport us home. And there truly is no need for worry; we made it back, did we not?”

Emma nods happily, burrowing into his arms as much as she can manage with her belly in the way, hugging him tightly. She hates how clingy she gets when she’s pregnant—he _loves_ it, and tells her that he loves how affectionate she is—but she really likes hugging him. He’s warm and sweet and he gives the best kisses.

Yup—she did good in the husband department.

“You should get dressed, love—the Queen might very well take our heads if we are late. We _are_ the Best Man and Maid of Honor, after all.”

Emma grins and nods, sighing a little—she’s glad she won’t have to stand for very long. Her legs can’t take all the extra baby weight she’s carrying around for very long anymore, and she’s been on bed rest—which she heavily protested against—since she reached five months.

Regina and Robin’s wedding is a grand affair—everyone is eager to see the now-reformed Evil Queen walk down the aisle to marry her True Love.

Emma had been really surprised when Regina had asked her to be the Maid of Honor—though no one but David had been surprised when Robin asked Killian to be his Best Man (and David had only been surprised because he’d secretly been hoping Robin would ask him)—but had accepted, eager at the prospect of getting to wear a pretty dress again.

Of course, that was before she realized she was pregnant again.

She’s still excited to wear a pretty dress (she’ll deny it if anyone asks), even though she’ll look like a hippo with duck feet.

“Can you wrestle Liam into his clothes?” She asks Killian when she finally manages to convince herself to leave her husband’s warm and comfortable embrace to change into her dress. “Henry already left, and I’m pretty sure Grace is over at Regina’s to help get Rose and Roland get ready, so it’s just us.”

“Of course, love,” Killian nods, before swooping down to the bed dramatically, grabbing their son and swinging him around as Liam giggles hysterically. “Papa!” she can hear him squeal as Killian runs down the hallway to Liam’s bedroom, “Papa, you silly! Down!”

She smiles a little and shakes her head—two peas in a pod, those two.

Always had been too.

She remembers the moments right after Liam had been born—before the Witch came to try and take their precious baby—and Killian’s awestruck face when Whale had first let him hold Liam.

.

.

.

_“He’s so small, love,” Killian whispers, “So tiny.”_

_Emma nods shakily, tears running down her cheeks—tears of joy. She’s never realized how much she missed not having had this moment with Henry until now. She’s never realizequite how much she had been looking forward to seeing Killian hold their child._

_“He’s perfect,” she breathes, stroking her finger down her son’s soft cheek, marveling at how_ beautiful _he is—he’s got little blonde curls already, and when he opened his eyes earlier, she would’ve sworn they are as blue as Killian’s._

_She knows all babies are born with blue eyes, but she’s sure that his will stay blue—or morph into an even more stunning shade of blue._

_“Ten little fingers and toes,” Killian chuckles weakly, playing with her son’s little feet, “I counted—they’re all there.”_

_“I want to name him Liam,” Emma whispers, looking up at her husband’s tear-filled eyes, “for the greatest brother in the world—the kindest and bravest man I have ever met.” She almost jumps when Killian suddenly leans down to kiss her, one arm protectively cradling their little boy, while his good hand strokes her cheek and tenderly wipes away her sweaty curls from her face._

_“You would honor him as such?” Killian asks hoarsely, when he pulls away, and Emma can see fresh tears shine in his eyes—she cannot stand seeing him hurt, so she simply nods, reaching up to wipe away his tears._

_“You’re not the only one who remembers them anymore,” she says quietly, tenderly, “And you no longer have to carry the burden of loving them alone—I loved them, Rose loved them… I’m sure even Henry does, even though he never met them. They’re at peace now,” she nods resolutely, “as they deserve—The Dark One’s gone. They’ve been avenged—their killer has been…” She swallows thickly, because even though she hated the man, he_ was _Neal’s father, and once Neal got his act together, they’d all become good friends._

_Before the Witch took him from them._

_“…He’s paid for his crimes,” she finishes lamely, though it_ is _true._

_The Dark One had perished along with Pan._

_Rumpelstiltskin, on the other hand, hadn’t._

_They still aren’t sure quite how it happened, but a few weeks after they returned from Neverland,  Rumpelstiltskin stumbled into town; clothes torn and dirty, hair in disarray and barefoot. He had no recollection of their time in Neverland—in fact, he only barely remembered anything that related to him being the Dark One._

_Eventually, Emma had allowed Belle to take him home, where she cared for him with Neal—until Neal had died._

_After Neal’s death, no one had seen either Belle nor Rumple out in town._

_“I know, love,” Killian sighs, drawing her attention back to him and their newborn son, “I know—and I would love to name our son in honor of my brother.” He looks down at the baby and smiles, “How about it, lad? Does Liam Jones sound good to you?”_

_Their sonsimply tugs on Killian’s finger and gurgles happily, and Emma chuckles softly. “I guess that’s a yes,” she smiles, resting her head against her husband’s shoulder as she admires their son._

_“Liam David Jones,” Killian decides, pressing a kiss to her forehead when she looks up at him in surprise, “His grandfather fought valiantly to protect his mother—he too deserved to be honored.”_

_Another tear rolls down her cheek as she nods, returning her gaze to her baby boy. “Liam David Jones it is,” she whispers, gently touching her fingertip to her son’s tiny little nose, “Welcome to Storybrooke, Liam.”_

.

.

.

Once Killian has managed to wrangle himself and his son into their suits, they wait by the door for Emma—well… He waits, while his son runs around the living room, chattering excitedly about seeing Roland and Uncle James (Snow and Charming’s second child, who’s actually younger than Liam is)—to finish dressing and come downstairs.

Truthfully, she waddles more than she walks, nowadays, and she moves slower—he knows she hates it, but he has always loved seeing her belly swell with their children—so he is usually in charge of getting their children ready for school in the morning.

Of course, this pregnancy had not been planned—not that Henry’s or Liam’s had been—and they had all been very surprised, but delighted nonetheless.

“Emma, love?” He calls out after he checks his watch, “Are you ready? We are running a little late.”

He can hear a muffled groan and a _thud_ , indicating that she dropped something again—and she’s not going to be able to pick it up herself, he knows that much. She can’t even bend over to tie her own shoelaces—not that he minds; he loves taking care of her. He sighs and smiles, shaking his head a little. “Liam, lad,” he tells his son, “Can you stand watch like I taught you on the ship?”

The wee lad immediately stands to attention—it is an adorable sight, he has to admit—and nods. “Aye, Captain—Papa!” Liam clumsily salutes him, and Killian’s heart squeezes painfully at the memory of his brother saluting him the same way many years ago.

He’s struck by how much his son looks like his brother sometimes.

“There’s a good lad,” he smiles, before hurrying up the stairs to the Master Bedroom.

He finds her sitting on the bed in her underwear, pouting at her dress and shoes, that are lying in a heap on the floor. “You alright there, love?” he asks carefully, picking up the dress as he passes it, neatly laying it out on the bed as he sits beside her.

“My dress won’t fit,” she whines, “And I look like a beached whale.”

“You do not, my love,” he soothes her, pressing a kiss to her temple, “You look beautiful, like you always do—and your dress fit just fine yesterday, did it not?” It did, in fact, he’s quite certain of that—she’s been obsessively checking if it still fit for the past two weeks.

“But I’m fat,” she wails dramatically, rubbing her swollen belly as if it’ll disappear if she rubs hard enough.

“You are not fat, my love,” he frowns at her, “You are pregnant with our children, and you’re absolutely lovely.” He pulls her to her feet gently and takes her dress from the bed. “Come now, darling,” he smiles, “Get dressed—then you can see our little sailor standing watch.”

Emma perks up considerably—somehow, the idea of seeing their son as a proud little sailor always does—and allows Killian to help her into her dress, smiling when he slides her feet into her flats. “There,” he plays with her lusciously curly hair and offers his beautiful wife a genuine smile, “You are gorgeous, my love.”

She sighs heavily and takes his hand. “Let’s go to my little sailor and get Regina and Robin married.”

Killian chuckles and presses a kiss to the back of her hand. “As you wish, my love.”

.

.

.

**A few weeks later**

Regina and Robin are taking an extended honeymoon after their wedding, and Roland is staying with Killian and Emma for the time being.

Needless to say, Killian and Emma have their hands full with three far too energetic children and a broody, lazy teenager—not to mention Emma’s fast-approaching due date. They have decided to deliver the twins via a cesarean, knowing that the risks attached to natural birth will be greater with twins.

Killian is most excited—not only does he know exactly when he will get to meet his new daughter and son, but he also knows that his Emma will be safe while delivering their children, and that is what he truly needs to know. 

Killian is chatting casually with Henry, who’s sitting at the kitchen island, doing his homework while Killian prepares their dinner. Emma’s in the living room, curled up on the couch in a nest of pillows and blankets with Liam, Rose and Roland, watching the monstrosity that is the Peter Pan Disney movie.

“So, dad,” Henry scratches his ear confusedly, “what was the difference between a longitude and a meridian again?”

Killian chuckles and points his wooden spoon at his son reproachfully. “You are a pirate’s son, lad—you should know that there is none. Longitude and meridian are synonyms. They run north to south if one was to look at the globe.”

Henry wrinkles his nose and scribbles something down. “Oh, please,” Henry grins, “Like you knew all of this when you were my age—I have to learn somehow.”

Killian grins, shrugging as he turns back to his pasta with green pesto—Emma’s latest craving. “I suppose so, lad. Tell me what a latitude is then, and how it runs across the globe.” He smiles as he listens to his eldest recite what he had taught him last time they went sailing together.

“Very good, lad,” he chuckles when Henry exhales loudly in relief, “I told you could do this, lad—you will ace that test, I am sure of it.”

Henry grins and opens his mouth to reply when Liam suddenly comes running into the kitchen, eyes wide and a little confused. “Papa,” he says urgently, “Papa, Mama needs the doctor—there’s water on the couch now.”

It takes a moment for the words to click and make sense in his head, and then his stomach drops, panic wriggling its way into his system. “Henry, call your grandparents and watch the others—I’m taking your mother to the hospital.”

Henry’s already moving, lifting his little brother onto the counter to play with him while on the phone with Snow. Killian sighs in relief before running to the bedroom, grabbing the bag Emma had prepared last week, in case the labor started early and they would need to get to the hospital in a hurry—he hadn’t expected her labor to start early, and neither had she.

After all, Liam and Henry had both been born a few days after their due date.

“Killian,” Emma shouts, followed by a loud groan. He nearly stumbles over his own feet in his hurry to get to his wife, who is standing by the front door, jacket half-on, clutching at her belly with a grimace.

“I’m here, love,” he offers hurriedly, helping her into her jacket and ushering her out the door. “Your parents are on their way to watch the children and Henry can hold down the fort until then.” !The ride to the hospital is tense and Emma’s moaning in pain the whole time—she cries when it hits her that she’s in labor and that it might be dangerous, and nothing he says calms her.

It makes him panic too, though he tries to hide it from his wife.

He pulls up in the parking lot of the hospital, almost not taking the time to yank his keys from the contact before he sprints around the car, opening Emma’s door for her. She turns to look at him and he nearly cries in agony at the fear and pain in her beautiful green eyes.

“Let’s get you inside, love,” he whispers gently, gathering her up in his arms as she pants heavily, her fingers clenching in his shirt—she nuzzles her face in his neck when he’s lifted her and has kicked the door shut.

“I love you,” she breathes in his ear, “But I am never having sex with you ever again.”

Killian chuckles weakly, pressing a kiss to the side of her head as he hurries inside, tightening his arms around her when she groans again, clutching at her stomach as another contraction hits her.

He winces once again when she tries to muffle her cry of pain into his shirt as he kicks the doors open, striding into the hospital determinedly. “Someone come help me,” he yells loudly, startling the nurse behind the desk, “Please—now. She’s gone into labour!”

“Sheriff Swan,” the girl behind the desk squeaks, flustered and confused, “Are you—would—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, child,” the elder blonde nurse that helped deliver Liam interrupts, “Get Whale. Captain, please,” she offers him a kind and reassuring smile that does nothing to help his frayed nerves—not with his Emma moaning in pain—, “you can lay her down here.” She shows him to one of the hospital beds, where he reluctantly lays down Emma.

“Killian,” she moans weakly, her voice barely audible, “Killian, I’m so _cold.”_

He stares at her in confusion before he suddenly realizes that his sleeve is _warm_ and _wet_ and that the sheets in the bed are no longer white but rapidly staining with deep red blood and this is _not good_.

“NURSE!” He bellows, barely able to think, to move, to do anything but cradle Emma in his arms and scream for help—he can’t lose her now, not now, not after everything.

“Killian, it hurts,” Emma breathes, “Make it stop—please.”

“You’ll be fine, love,” he chokes, his hands shaking as he strokes her sweaty curls from her forehead, “You have to be. I need you— _we_ need you.” She blinks up at him lazily, nodding slowly when he’s suddenly pulled away from her.

“No,” he screams, fighting the hands that are holding him back until he realizes that Whale is now with Emma, moving her bed down the long hall and that it’s David and Robin—when did he get back?—holding him back. “No, let me go,” he pleads, “Dave, mate, please—I have to—”

“You have to go talk to Henry and Liam and Rose,” David says forcefully, shaking him, and he _knows_ , he knows he has to think rationally, but there had been _so_ much blood and he’s _scared_ , damn it.

“But—” he tries, but Robin cuts him off, shaking his head lightly.

“No, Killian. Go tell your children their mother is alright. The doctors will look after Emma—there’s nothing you can do here now.”

He stares between the two men for a moment longer, contemplating arguing before a voice in his head—one that sounds suspiciously like his wife—reminds him that little Liam is probably scared and confused and that Henry and Rose will needs assurances that none but him can give them.

“Fine,” he sighs, “Fine. But I want to come back right away. I have to be here.”

“I know, mate,” David nods, his smile tight and strained, “I know.”

.

.

.

He’s been sitting by Emma’s bed for hours, holding her hand as he waits for her to wake up. She’s okay, and Whale had been able to stop the bleeding before it got out of hand. Their son and daughter are both sleeping tightly in their bassinets, looking almost like tiny angels—he’s sure _that_ won’t last long; just until they’re hungry.

If they’re anything like Liam was, they’ll scream the house down to get attention.

He chuckles tiredly at the thought and momentarily shifts his gaze from Emma to his babies, smiling brightly—they are beautiful. Both inherited his dark hair, unlike Liam—who’s Emma’s spitting image—and Emma’s chin.

“Daddy?”

He jumps a little, smiling at Rose as she slips into the room carefully. She’s supposed to be with the Charmings, but he has long learned not to be surprised when she turns up—it’s increasingly difficult to keep her from going somewhere when she’s decided where she wants to be.

She started calling him and Emma ‘mommy’ and ‘daddy’ almost a year after they returned from Neverland, and it still makes his heart squeeze painfully—but he knows she only has hazy memories of Liam and Prue, and he loathes that, but he feels honored to know that Rose sees him and Emma as parents too.

Prue and Liam will always be her Mama and Papa—she’s always been very insistent about that—and he’s glad that Rose feels like she’s a true part of their little family. “Hello, little love,” he smiles, grinning a little when she immediately runs up to him and crawls into his lap to cuddle.

She peeks over the edge of the bed and pouts. “Is mommy going to be okay?”

“She’s fine, love,” he assures her, stroking his fingers through her wild curls, “she’s just very tired.”

“And the babies?”

“They’re right there,” he nods towards where the babies are sleeping in their bassinets. He watches as Rose jumps from his lap and peeks into the bassinet, smiling a little—he remembers how curious and confused she had been when Liam was a baby—as she gingerly touches Baby Boy Jones’ hand.

“They’s so small,” she says, and he can hear the curious wonder in her tone, “They’re smaller than Liam was.”

He gets up, moving to stand beside her as she looks at the newest additions to their family. “Well, Liam was the only one in Emma’s belly—he had a lot more room. There were two of them, so they had to wait until they were born to grow bigger.”

Rose wrinkles her nose at him and frowns. “So they were even tinier last night?”

Killian laughs heartily, pressing a kiss to the top of Rose’s head. “No, darling, they weren’t—but now that they are born, the babies will grow bigger really fast. Like Liam, remember?”

Rose nods, her brow wrinkling as she studies the babies thoughtfully before turning to Emma, reaching for her hand. “When’s mommy waking up?” She asks softly as she strokes Emma hand, careful to avoid the IV line Whale put in there because the veins in Emma’s arm were too small.

“I don’t know, little love,” Killian sighs and returns to his chair, watching as Rose gently crawls onto the bed so she can snuggle with the woman she now sees as her mother.

“Can I stay, Daddy?” Rose whispers as she gets comfortable with Emma, being very careful not to touch her stomach—he’s proud to see that Rose remembers that Emma was very uncomfortable about her stomach being touched right after Liam was born; it’ll probably be even more tender after the C-section.

“Sure you can, love. I’m going to call your grandmother to tell her where you are,” he smiles and steps out of the room, quickly making a call to Snow while he ponders on Rose and Emma’s relationship.

He supposes they bonded over training their magic—Rose loves Elsa too.

Being a one of a kind magic user is a lot to bond over.

.

.

.

_Rose watches curiously as Auntie Emma and Miss Elsa talk and laugh, wrinkling her nose a little. She wants to laugh too, and Miss Elsa is hogging Auntie Emma’s attention, and Rose doesn’t like it._

_She pouts, carefully thinking about what to do to get Auntie Emma to pay attention to her again—she doesn’t like it when Auntie Emma and Uncle Killy don’t pay attention to her; she’s scared that they will disappear too, like Momma and Papa did, and she doesn’t want Uncle Killy and Auntie Emma to disappear too._

_She shivers a little, rubbing her little hands over her arms. She knows Peter Pan is gone and can’t come steal her again—after all, Uncle Killy had promised—and that he was a liar, but sometimes, when she sees Uncle Killy and Auntie Emma with baby Liam or Henry, she is a little afraid that they won’t need her anymore and forget her._

_She doesn’t like that idea._

_“Auntie Emma,” she finally cries, running forward to wrap her arms around Auntie Emma’s waist, “You said we were going to make pretty magic.” She knows that will draw Auntie Emma’s attention and that Miss Elsa will be all forgotten instead of her._

_Auntie Emma chuckles and runs her fingers through Rose’s hair—Rose loves how that feels; it reminds her of how Mama used to braid and comb it in the morning. “We are, honey,” Auntie Emma says softly, “I was talking to Elsa to see if she could teach us to do some of the spells she uses.”_

_Rose wrinkles her nose and peeks at the tall blonde in the shiny blue dress. “You can do magic?”_

_Miss Elsa kneels down before her, smiling gently. “I can. I can make all kinds of things out of snow and ice—I made Olaf.”_

_Rose’s eyes widen and she squeals—Olaf is the bestest snowman ever. He played hide-and-seek with her and Roland and makes funny jokes all the time—and he gives the best hugs! “You did?” Rose claps her hands excitedly, “Can I make Olaf too?”_

_Elsa and Auntie Emma chuckle—Rose isn’t sure_ why _, she’s serious—and Elsa shakes her head slowly. “I’m not sure, sweetie. But, I can show you how to make your own snowman—or how to use your magic. So you won’t accidently do something that could hurt Henry or Liam—you don’t want that to happen, right?”_

_Rose bites her lip nervously and turns back to Auntie Emma, clutching at her hand. “Auntie Emma, I won’t hurt anyone.”_

_Auntie Emma smiles gently and leans down, pressing a kiss to Rose’s cheek. “I know you won’t, honey—but think of how much fun it would be if we both knew how to use our magic—we could use it to surprise Uncle Killy.”_

_Rose nods slowly, looking at Elsa uncertainly. “Are you going to take Auntie Emma and Uncle Killy away?”_

_Emma and Elsa share a sad look that Rose doesn’t see before Elsa takes Rose’s hand in hers gently and offers Rose a smile. “Did you know I had a sister?”_

_Rose shakes her head and pouts. “Where is she now?”_

_Elsa looks down briefly, tears filling her icy blue eyes as snowflakes begin to form around them. “I was trapped in the urn for a long time, and while I was in there, Anna and Kristoff had to grow old without me. Your Auntie Emma told me that Pan did that to you in Neverland.”_

_Rose nods sadly and wipes at a tear in her eye. “Momma and Papa had to grow really old and then had to go to where grandmamma went before Auntie Emma found me.”_

_“Exactly,” Elsa squeezes Rose’s hand softly, “I would_ never _take away your Auntie and Uncle. I promise.”_

_Rose studies the woman carefully before she nods, crossing her arms over her chest, “Okay. Can you do the magic now?” Emma and Elsa both laugh loudly, before Elsa gets to her feet and flicks her hand—the snow that fell when Miss Elsa was talking about her sister swirls prettily and Rose gasps in awe._

_Maybe Miss Elsa isn’t so bad after all._

_As long as she remembers that Auntie Emma and Uncle Killy are_ hers.

_._

_._

_._

**One week later—Granny’s Diner**

Emma shifts, a little uncomfortable, as her baby boy tugs on her hair while he stares up at her with his sea-green eyes. She loves the twin’s eyes—it’s not the same shade of green as her and her mother, but it is also not the kind of blue that Killian, Henry and Liam share; it’s something in-between, and it is a perfect mix.

Killian is standing by the bar, talking to her father and Granny while holding their daughter, who’s cooing happily at her grandfather.

She sighs and offers Elsa, who’s sitting in the booth with her, playing cards with Rose, a small, tired smile. Her parents had insisted on a real naming ceremony—since they hadn’t had one for Liam and Henry—for the twins, and Emma and Killian had eventually relented, knowing that this is one thing they _can_ give her parents.

She knows Snow and Charming still agonize over missing her entire childhood and a lot of her adulthood, and having some of these traditions in place for their grandchildren gives them comfort.

“Are you okay, Emma?” Elsa’s soft voice breaks her from her thoughts and she smiles tiredly.

“I’m fine,” she smiles, “I’m just tired. They were up all night crying—Killian finally managed to get them to calm down by five AM.”

Elsa looks at the little boy in Emma’s arms and smiles lightly. “It seems so hard to believe that those two little angels could do that.” Emma wants nothing more than to roll her eyes at Elsa and tell her to shut up because she has no idea what she’s talking about, but she knows that’s the exhaustion talking—the babies may be angels right now, but the moment the sun goes down, these two turn into little demons.

“Believe it, lass,” Killian interjects as he slides in next to Emma, their newborn girl carefully cradled in his arms, “they’re wee demons, these two.”

Snow’s hand seems to appear out of nowhere and smacks Killian on the back of the head. “Don’t you talk about my grandbabies like that,” she admonishes him as she joins them, “They’re adorable.” Emma giggles a little at Killian’s expression and leans over to kiss his cheek and soothe his ruffled feathers.

“Mama,” Liam squeals as he runs up to the booth with Henry in tow, “Mama, I wanna see the babies—can I see the babies?” Rose helps him crawl onto the seat next to hers—he almost crawls onto the table before Elsa grabs him and sets him back down on his seat.

“Can we know their names now?” Rose whines impatiently, and it’s like a hush falls over the entire Diner—Regina and Robin are grinning; Regina just laughed when Snow insisted on the whole naming ceremony; and Roland is bouncing up and down next to them.

Emma smiles, warmth blooming in her heart as she takes in the faces of her friends and family around her, ending with her husband’s beautiful blue eyes. “Yeah,” she says softly, “Yeah.” Killian smiles at her as she shuffles closer to him, their babies both yawning at the same time.

Her eyes cloud a little with tears as she takes in her babies—once upon a time, she’d thought she’d be alone forever, that she’d never be loved and would never love—but she was wrong and she’s never been so glad to be wrong.

She has a husband that has loved her for centuries, that found her against all odds and she has five beautiful babies, parents and friends—even though they drive her insane sometimes—and she’s _happy_.

Killian smiles at her and she knows he knows what she’s thinking.

“Everyone,” Killian announces, his eyes never leaving Emma’s, “we want to introduce you to Lukas Aedan Jones—” Emma rests her hand on his arm and continues, “And Leia Ava Jones.”

And though it’s not perfect and it’s chaotic and messy—it’s their life.

And she loves it.


End file.
